


Wild West Wolfe

by ProfessorFlimflam



Category: Holby City
Genre: Angst, Can I get a yeehaw?, F/F, Humour, Melodrama, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Wild West AU, Wild West Wolfe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-03-31 18:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/pseuds/ProfessorFlimflam
Summary: 1883, Somewhere Out West.Serena McKinnie runs a successful - and perfectly respectable - saloon bar in the growing frontier town of Holby City. Not only that, but she’s the town’s doctor, too. Most of her business - on both fronts - comes courtesy of Holby’s resident villain, Guy Self. He’s quick to draw and handy with his fists, but he has one weakness: he can’t stand up to a strong woman. He’s seen off six sheriffs in as many years - will the next one fare any better?Sheriff Bernie Wolfe might be just what Holby City and Serena need.





	1. The Good, The Bad And The Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> It will be immediately apparent to anyone who has ever heard an American speak that I am not one. With apologies to those of you who are, the subliminal inspiration for everything that follows is probably Saturday morning childhood viewings of _Bonanza_ , _High Chaparral_ and _Champion The Wonder Horse_. Just as a non-British writer will liberally scatter ther dialogue with knickers, brollies and bollocks to show that we are in Sherlockland, I have resorted to howdy pardner, yeehaw and rootin’ tootin’ vocabulary to remind you that we are in the Wild West, in case you forget.
> 
> On no account engage in a drinking game that obliges you to take a shot of sippin’ whiskey every time you read the word ‘reckon’ - it will be embarrassing to explain in A&E - sorry, I mean the ER. ED? You know what I mean.
> 
> There are neither cowboys / vaqueros nor Indians / Natve Americans here - I know I can’t get that one right - but there is mention and recollection of the Civil War and of slavery. I’m no historian - if I’ve got things very wrong or very tone deaf, correct me and forgive me.
> 
> Now, saddle up and get ready to read every Wild West cliché in the book, loosely strung together with what I’m hoping will pass for a plot, and by some characters who I hope will seem vaguely familiar.
> 
> Yeehaw!

“For the last time, Mr Self, this is not a goddamn whorehouse!”

Guy Self guffawed as he pulled the frightened girl closer to him with a brawny arm and pinched her cheek.

“That’s not what the boys up at the ranch were saying round the camp fire last night, Miss McKinnie! Prettiest little fillies you ever did see, they was saying, and something special for the gentleman whose tastes run to the more… exotic.”

Morven shrieked as he tried to kiss her, and managed to duck under his arm, running behind the voluminous skirts of her employer and friend, Serena McKinnie.

“None of my girls is a _pretty little filly_ as you put it, or an exotic exhibit for your delectation. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head or you’ll get out of my bar, sir. In fact, why don’t you do that right now? Go on, git!”

She took a menacing step towards him, determined to shoo him from the premises, but he laughed in her face, the whiskey fumes almost making her eyes water.

“You going to make me, sweet thing? If I can’t have the fillies, I’ll just have the old mare instead - come here, you fine piece of horseflesh, you!”

He stepped closer to her, unbuckling his belt with a lewd grin, which Serena promptly slapped off his face with a resounding crack. The bar fell silent, and Guy Self’s demeanour changed in an instant from crude playfulness to sullen anger.

“You’re going to regret that, you bitch,” her growled, blood trickling from his split lip.

Tension crackled in the bar, and the bartender stepped between Serena and the brute in front of her.

“You’ll have to come through me first, Mr Self,” he piped nervously.

“You? Don’t make me laugh, nancy boy. I’ll break you like I broke the last sap that tried to stand between me and my woman, sheriff’s badge or not.”

Serena pulled herself up to her full height and pulled young Mr Copeland back by his elbow. “Essie Harrison was never your woman, and you didn’t break Sheriff Levy, though Lord knows you tried hard enough. You chased those good folk out of town, but you won’t chase me out - I won’t be bullied, and neither will my girls. Now go on, shoo!”

A deep voice from the door spoke up.

“You heard the lady - git outta here. And I’d better not see you on my streets again, or there’ll be trouble.”

The tall broad figure was silhouetted against the daylight outside, but as he turned, both Serena and Guy saw the dull gleam of gunmetal at his hip, and the glint of the star on his coat. The sheriff stepped in close to the ranch hand, looming over him by half a head.

“I’m going, I’m going. But you’d better watch your backs,” he warned, lurching round with a sweeping gesture that took in Serena, her girls, Mr Copeland, and even the sheriff. “You ain’t seen the last of Guy Self.” He strode through the saloon doors which swung and flapped in his wake. Serena turned to the stranger.

“I’m much obliged to you, Mr -?”

“Medcalf, ma’am - Sheriff Robert Medcalf at your service. Just got off the stage and heard the ruckus, thought I’d come and introduce myself. That feller give you much trouble?”

“Mr Medcalf. I appreciate you stepping in like that, but I can manage Guy Self. And I gotta tell you, you just made a big mistake. I can tell you’re fresh off the stage - only a fool or a man with a death wish would do what you just did. Best thing you can do now is get straight back on that coach and head back to wherever you came from, or Guy Self will make sure you stay here for good, six feet under. Oh, put your tape measure away, Mr Fletcher!” For the town’s carpenter - and undertaker - had stepped forward ready to measure him up.

“I just wanted to check, Miss McKinnie - I don’t think I’ve got anything in his size right now…”

“I won’t be needing no coffin just yet, sir - I plan on sticking around and cleaning this town of vermin like him. Guy Self, you said? He live here in Holby City?”

Serena shook her head. “No, he’s out at the old Darwin place a ways out of town. They keep him in line up there - he’ll shoot a man dead as soon as look at him, but his daughter and that fearsome chaperone of hers rule the roost. He can’t handle a strong woman - which is why you shoulda kept your nose out of things. I can handle him just fine, but you’re a marked man now, sure enough.”

Medcalf scoffed, his thumbs in his belt. “He don’t frighten me. Ain’t nobody going to make a mark of Robert Medcalf. By the time you ladies go to church on Sunday, he’ll be in my gaol, waiting for the hangman to -”

A sudden hail of bullets stopped his speech mid-flow and kicked up clouds of dust around his feet, and he hopped and skipped like a new born buffalo calf to dodge the gunfire.

“That’s right, boy, you dance for your daddy!” whooped Guy Self, who had returned unseen and now stood at the door, a smoking gun in each hand. “Now, you can dance your way out of town, or you can dance your way down to the graveyard - I don't greatly care which. Come on, boy, dance!”

A fresh spate of bullets buzzed at his feet like angry hornets, and Sheriff Robert Medcalf shot out through the door like shit off a shovel, leapt onto the waiting stagecoach and cracked the coachman’s whip. “Drive, damn it, drive, won’t you?” he bellowed. The coachman chewed on his cigar and regarded him amiably.

“These horses don’t take orders from nobody but me, sir, and I ain’t going nowhere until four o’clock. I’ll take you then, but you mind waiting somewhere else? I don’t want no more holes in my coach.” Sure enough, a ragged line of bullet holes decorated the side of the rickety wooden vehicle. Looking around wild-eyed to see Self striding after him with a pair of freshly reloaded pistols, Robbie Medcalf leapt down from the stage and starting running for his life along the dusty street back out of town, holding his hat on with one hand.

Guy laughed, slapping his thigh. “I declare, that’s the quickest one yet! Six sheriffs in as many years - they ain’t made the man yet that can get the better of me! Woo, hoo! Look at him go - I do believe he’s wet his pants an’all!” Sure enough, there was a suspicious dark patch visible at the rapidly receding figure’s rear. Guy swaggered back up the street and unhitched his horse. As he swung up into the saddle, he looked scornfully at the little crowd standing warily by the door of the bar.

“You’re next, pretty boy - I won’t forget. _You’ll have to come through me first_ ,” he mimicked. “I’m gonna do just that, you wait and see.”

He kicked his heels against the poor beast’s flanks and wheeled round, two fingers pointing like the barrel of a gun lined up straight between Mr Copeland’s eyes, before riding off pell mell in the opposite direction to the short-lived sheriff, still laughing.

The hotel patrons shuffled back inside to their whiskey, but Serena held her bartender aside for a moment.

“Dominic,” she sighed. “Don’t you ever learn? You’re brave, and kind, and dumb as a sack of rocks, I swear. You know I don’t need defending from that muttonhead - why’d you go and rile him up like that?”

He blushed, but he was pale beneath it, shaken from the encounter and by the older man’s threat. “He shouldn’t talk to a lady like that, and my mamma didn’t bring me up to see a lady insulted.”

“She didn’t bring you up to ogle cowboys’ rear ends, either, but you manage that all right,” Serena said dryly. “I appreciate it Dominic, I really do - but you’d better keep out of his way a while now, you hear me? You’d better sleep here tonight - you know I’ve always got room for you.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Thank you, ma’am, but no thank you, ma’am. I’ve got to get back to Kellersville tonight. If Mr Self wants to find me, he’s going to look there first - might as well get it over with, else he’ll only take it out on some other poor soul.”

She looked at him with a worried expression on her face, but she knew he was right. For all his bluster when it came to women, Guy Self had never made a threat against a man that he hadn’t carried through: she could only hope that he would settle for teaching the boy a lesson, rather than meting out the same treatment Sheriff Isaac Mayfield had received - not that she was going to go and lay flowers on _his_ tomb. Nobody in Holby City mourned the corrupt lawman - he had been a bully and a thug - but Self’s disregard for the law left the whole town on edge. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she ushered him back inside.

“You're a better man than he is, by a country mile. Come on, let’s go sell some liquor - you know everyone needs a good stiff drink when Mr Self’s been in town.”

Serena took extra care shutting the hotel up that evening. As the last drinkers reeled out onto the street, she locked the doors, shot the bolts, and with Morven’s help, settled the heavy beam across the doors into its brackets. She sighed. It was a long time since she’d tolerated Guy’s drinking at the hotel, due not just to his aggression and belligerence, but also because he was such a lousy drunk: for all he was such a hard man, he couldn’t hold his liquor, and she had lost count of the times she had dragged him out on to the street to dunk him in the horse trough to sober him up enough to ride home. She knew that Guy Self would eventually drink himself under the table at the Darwin house, but until she was sure that danger had passed, Serena McKinnie sat late into the night on the balcony outside her room, a shotgun across her knees.


	2. The Bravest Fool In The West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guy Self makes good on his threat to punish young Mr Copeland for standing up to him, and in the morning, there is a sorry sight waiting for Serena at the back door of the hotel. She and the girls do everything they can for Dominic - but will it be enough?

Despite Serena’s late night vigil, she woke in the morning as fresh as ever, ready to start the day’s business. She heard the girls moving around in their dormitory: Morven, Donna and Jasmine. They were orphans, all three of them, and not a one of them knew a thing about their families. The war had devastated the young nation, and left widows and orphans all across the Union. These three had been lucky: when Serena had first come to Holby City, the hotel had indeed entertained gentlemen who paid by the hour rather than by the drink, but she had changed all that with hard work, determination and the iron will she had inherited from her mother. The working girls had eventually moved on, unconvinced that they could learn a new trade or ever be seen as respectable women unless they could start over somewhere new. These three waifs and strays had been left behind: they had been mere children when Serena swept the house clean, and she had gladly taken them under her wing. She had never married: she had been engaged in her youth, but she had never wanted the match, and she had turned her fiancé away to follow her studies and her career instead. Edward had immediately signed up for the army (though she doubted it had been due to heartbreak), and had been killed very soon after at Chancellorsville, and although it had seemed like the irrevocable closing of a chapter back in ’63, she couldn’t imagine being married now, not to him or to anybody. She was her own woman, always had been, and she didn’t know many married women as could say _that_.

She washed at the little basin on the stand, and wasted little time dressing herself. She didn’t hold with the fashion of pulling the waist in with whalebone and laces, nor did she like being dependent on a maidservant to lace her in and pull tight, a knee in the small of her back, just to create the effect of a waist as slender as her neck. If the good Lord had intended womenfolk to have wasp waists, he wouldn’t have given them all those inconvenient ribs and organs, she told her girls - “and if you’re going to take after a wasp at all, leave the waist but take the sting - it’ll serve you better.” And besides, she thought with a rare flash of vanity, her figure didn’t need any help from artifice: it was mighty fine as it was. Her waist may not be as slim as it had once been, but she rejoiced in a healthy full figure, with curves to outdo any showgirl back East, and while she dressed decently - and wisely, given her clientele - she indulged in no false modesty.

She took a last satisfied look in the mirror, settled her skirts neatly and made her way down the stairs to get the day started. The bar could do with a sweep and generally putting to rights - after the commotion of the previous day, she had sent the girls to bed without doing their usual chores, but they would look after all of that when they came downstairs. For now, she went on through to the kitchen, stoked the fire in the stove and put a pot of water on to boil for coffee and cleaning. As it warmed on the range, she went about preparing the back room for the morning’s business, wiping the blackboard clean, picking out a handful of books from the shelf, and selecting a few jars from the cabinet, making sure to lock it again with the little key on the ring at her waist. She wiped down the great butcher’s block and mopped the floor with warm water and lye. Carrying the pail to the back porch, she unbolted the door and threw it wide open to let the new morning into the house, and flung the pail of water into the street.

As she turned to take the pail back inside, her eye was caught by a heap of dirty blankets piled against the side of the stoop. She sighed. Folk were kind enough to leave gifts of things they figured she might use - sometimes as a kindness, sometimes in thanks for her services. Sometime, she suspected, just as a way of getting rid of junk they didn’t know what to do with - but she accepted it all with a grateful heart, a gracious smile - and who was to know if the rickety old stool so kindly donated ended up as firewood? Blankets, however, were always useful, though it looked as though these particular rags would need boiling for a day before she would even want them in the house. She turned them over with the end of her mop - and started back in surprise as the pile heaved and shifted with a whimper and a moan, and gasped as a bloody eye regarded her cautiously from within.

“Oh! What the - _Dominic_? Dom, is that you? Oh, honey, what did he do to you?” She hurried to his side, and carefully pulled away the blanket until she could see his face properly. He winced and turned his face away from the bright sunlight, but she put a hand to his chin and drew it round to inspect the damage. It was bad.

“Where else does it hurt, honey?” She pulled the blanket away from his body, and saw that he was cradling his ribs with one hand, the other hanging uselessly at his side. “Everywhere, huh?”

He mumbled something that might have been agreement, and she turned back to the door. “Jasmine! You up? Run over to Mr Fletcher’s and tell him to get here double quick - I need him right now. Oh - and tell him not to get his hopes up: we’ve got a patient - he hasn’t got a customer.” The young woman hastened over the street and hammered on the carpenter’s door. Serena saw him come to the porch, saw Jasmine fling an arm out towards the hotel in explanation, and she nodded grimly at him as he caught her eye. He ducked back into the shop for a moment, and reappeared with a timber board to act as a stretcher. Serena had called on his services before, and he knew the drill.

“Mr Fletcher - thank you. It’s Mr Copeland - looks like Mr Self found him last night. He’s beat up pretty bad - can we get him into the parlour? Careful now, he’s hurt all over. Gently, gently…”

Together they eased him onto the stretcher and manoeuvred it into the parlour that she already set up, and they carefully laid him down while Jasmine set about lighting the lamps. Before he had been forced out of town, Sacha Levy, the blacksmith who had also served for a while as lawman, had arranged a curved sheet of highly polished tin that worked as a reflector to provide all the light possible from the oil lamps, and Jasmine drew it into place now. By now, Morven and Donna had joined them, and looked on wide eyed as they took in the sorry sight of their colleague and friend laid out on the butcher’s block.

“Change of plan, ladies. Today’s lesson will be a practical one. Donna, would you put the jars back in the cabinet and bring out the iodine, please?” She tossed the ring of keys to the eldest of her charges, and Donna dutifully placed the chemicals back in their labelled places in the cabinet. Without needing to be asked, Morven had taken the leather roll of instruments through to the kitchen and placed them in the pan of water which was now boiling away. Serena nodded approvingly.

“That’s right - cleanliness is next to godliness, and a darn sight more helpful. Mr Fletcher, would you put that away and make yourself useful!” He had been hopefully fingering the tape measure that always hung around his neck, but he snapped to attention now and helped her take the young man’s boots off.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut these fancy pants off you, Dominic, unless you can lift your hips up for me?” He tried, but it was too much of an effort and caused him too much pain, and Serena took a pair of shears to his trousers. His shirt went the same way, and they could see straight away that his shoulder was dislocated.

“All right - who wants to tell me what we’re dealing with here? Jasmine?” Her eyes flicked briefly to the pile of text books, but she didn’t need to read them to see that they would need to relocate his shoulder, reset what looked like a broken leg, and bind his ribs.

“And maybe a beefsteak for that shiner, too,” she concluded. Serena rolled her eyes.

“I expect you meant to say ‘apply a poultice to reduce the swelling of the contusion on the zygomatic bone,’ isn’t that right, Jasmine?”

“Uh, yes ma’am,” Jasmine conceded bashfully. She knew the theory all right, but she couldn’t help getting overexcited now that Miss McKinnie allowed her to help out, and she didn’t always remember the fancy words.

“Morven - do you agree? Any further observations?”

The younger woman nodded, but her expression was thoughtful.

“I do agree, Miss McKinnie, but I dunno as his ribs need binding - might be better to let ’em heal free, so to speak, if Mr Copeland can rest up a while. And I’d like to ask him a few questions, if he’s up to it?” She turned to her patient, who nodded.

“Do m’best to answer, Miss Shreve, though I'm feeling kinda fuzzy…”

Morven went through all the questions she had heard Serena ask of men who’d been thrown from their horse, or who had come out the worse from an encounter with a bar stool in a brawl. How many fingers was she holding up? Could he follow her finger from side to side, up and down? What day was it? She turned to Serena and offered a diagnosis.

“He’s got a heck of a concussion, ma’am. I’d say he needs to rest as long as he can once we’ve put his shoulder back where it belongs - so we shouldn’t need to bind his ribs, neither. I reckon we fix his leg first - we shouldn’t need to move him much to do that, then _pop_ his shoulder back.” She gave a sudden jerking motion, like a chicken flapping its wing.

“Hmm. I like your reasoning, but I think in this case we’ll work from the top down. Getting that shoulder back in place is going to hurt like the blazes whenever we do it, and we can reset the leg real quick while he’s still hollering about his shoulder. Stabilise the leg first, though - don’t want him kicking out and making it worse. Mr Fletcher, could you oblige us with a splint, please?”

While the undertaker, robbed of a customer, trotted back to his workshop to find a suitable lath, Serena turned to Dominic.

“If I was back East, I’d have all the latest drugs to knock you out so as you’d feel no pain - why, a bit of gas and you'd be laughing like anything - but here we are out West, for our sins, and the best I can offer you’s a good old fashioned bottle of whiskey. You want to trade the pain for a hangover?”

He shook his head, and wished he hadn’t. “Don’t reckon I can hurt any more than I do already, Miss McKinnie. If I got a concussion, guess I ought to keep my head as clear as I can, right?”

She nodded. “Just so, Mr Copeland, just so. He didn’t beat all the sense out of you, then. This _was_ Mr Self, yes?”

“Course it was - him and a couple of his goons. They got me before I even got to Kellersville, left me for dead on the road. How’d’you find me?”

She looked at him, puzzled? “Find you? Why, I found you out on the street just now, boy. Someone must have found you and brought you here in the night. You don’t remember how you got here?”

He frowned, a memory buzzing around the edges of his mind like a moth batting against a window. “I thought it was you - I think I heard a woman’s voice - voices, thought it must be you and the girls - begging your pardon, ladies.”

Serena looked at him, her mind ticking over. “Well, never mind that - we’ll say a prayer for your Good Samaritan if the spirit ever moves us to go to church again. Let’s get you fixed up. Where’s that lunk of a carpenter got to?”

By the time Mr Fletcher returned with a splint, Serena had organised her team, and Jasmine was nervously stitching up a couple of fairly superficial wounds on Dominic’s brow.

“Make them good and neat, now - you’re going to be seeing them every day, so get them right. Not too tight - that's it. Nicely done Miss Burrows - we’ll make a surgeon of you yet,” Serena approved, and Jasmine beamed. She had never been trusted to stitch up anything livelier than the pig’s trotters they used for practice before now, and it had gone well.

The leg temporarily splinted, Serena explained that Dominic had decided to forego the pleasures of the numbing whiskey, and that for his sake, she and Mr Fletcher would carry out the relocation to ensure it was as quick as possible - she didn’t even pretend that it would be painless - and without giving him any more time to worry about it, she instructed her assistant in how to position and restrain their patient, and then, with a swift, brutal movement, the shoulder joint was back in its rightful position, and Dominic suppressed a howl of anguish. True to her word, Serena wasted no time in resetting the broken leg while he was still high on the pain of the first procedure, and she left Donna to bind it properly in place.

Once she had finished, Mr Fletcher carried Dominic upstairs, and Serena settled him into what had once been a guest room, and dismissed the carpenter. She regarded Dominic sternly.

“You’re a fool, Mr Copeland. You didn’t need to do what you did. You must’ve known he’d punish you, but you just couldn’t - ah, well, never mind. You may be a fool, but you’re my fool.” She stooped to press a kiss to his battered brow, smiled at him and shut the door quietly behind her. She retired to her own rooms, but after a deal of thought, she went back in to Mr Copeland’s room, where she stayed for some time, and the girls downstairs could only make out a low murmur of voices before it fell silent.

Serena descended the stairs with a sober expression on her face. “I don’t like the look of him. There’s some internal bleeding that I can’t do anything about - we have to hope for the best, but I got to tell you girls, I’m preparing for the worst, and you should do the same. I'm going to sit with him, and I don’t want him disturbed none. His best hope’s rest now.” She took a cup of coffee with them as they sat together in anxious silence.

When she came downstairs again several hours later, the girls had cleared up the parlour: cleaning and drying the instruments before carefully rolling them up again, and scrubbing the block of poor Dominic’s blood. Serena looked at them where they sat quietly reading and shook her head sadly.

“I’m so sorry girls. I know how fond you all were of him. I’m going to need one of you to call on Mr Fletcher again - and you can tell him to bring his measuring tape.”

Donna bowed her head, and the younger women clutched at each other's hands. They were all so very fond of Dominic, and the morning had brought nothing but shock and sorrow.

Jasmine piped up in a tremulous voice, “Oh, Miss McKinnie, ma’am, did I stitch him up wrong? Was it an infection from my needlework? I’ll never forgive myself!” And she turned sobbing into Morven’s shoulder.

“No, Jasmine, no. You did fine work, truly - he was just so badly beat up. We did everything we could for him, and he knew it. Now, I hate to ask it, but I’m going to need one of you to take his place in the bar: Miss Jackson, I think we’re going to need your firm hand with the boys today. Anyone asks about Mr Copeland, you ask them to say a prayer for the soul of the bravest fool in the West.”

She sent the young women off to their daily duties and private study, and stood on the back porch, surveying the narrow alley. There had been too much commotion now to tell much by the tracks on the ground - she wished she had paid more attention this morning. A woman’s voice, Dominic had said.

What woman in Holby other than herself would risk angering Guy Self?


	3. Donna Get Your Gun!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Holby City pay their respects to poor Mr Copeland with donations to Serena’s medical practice - some more practical than others. Perhaps the most useful gift is also the most mysterious: who could have made such a valuable donation?
> 
> And if it’s true that there’s no man alive that can get the better of Guy Self, then what hope is there for Holby?

The demise of Dominic Copeland sent the town into deep mourning. He was a popular young man, always charming to the ladies, especially kind to the town’s many widows, who had all doted on him, and such a good bartender that even the roughest, toughest ranch hand was prepared to overlook his sometimes dainty ways. He had served quickly and efficiently, had been friendly but respectful, and had served as confidant to many a drunken, broken-hearted cowboy.

He had stitched many of them up, too. Most towns had to make do with the efforts of the butcher or the barber, but Holby folks were spoiled by Miss McKinnie and her posse of would-be medics. Mr Copeland had been her right hand man, and had developed a reputation as a fine surgeon despite his youth. There weren’t many men in and around the town as hadn’t benefitted from the ministrations of Dominic or Serena at some point in their lives, and the town boasted of the neatest scars for miles around.

Talk of the freshly dug mound in the graveyard spread like wildfire, and within a few days it was covered in flowers. Serena and her girls had been snowed under with gifts of blankets, linen, clothing and an extraordinary assortment of things for which they had no possible use. There were china dogs, bath salts, antimacassars, and even a full size bust of Napoleon Bonaparte for no good reason Serena could think of, though she thanked the Reverend Digby politely. The blanket he had wrapped it in smelled irreparably of his dog, and they tossed it in the fire as soon as he had gone. _Clean_ blankets were always useful, and even the most well-worn linen could always be cut down for bandages, but two or three days after the loss of Mr Copeland, a gift arrived that was as mysterious as it was welcome.

Without exception, the gifts that had been left in memory and appreciation of Mr Copeland had been left on the front porch, their donors too respectful to disturb a house in mourning. Some came with a note expressing sorrow, perhaps a memory or anecdote, but a few came anonymously, whether through humility or illiteracy Serena wasn’t sure. Donna had taken in yet another bundle of sheets that morning, and taken them to the back door to shake out the dust and any unwanted guests they might be harbouring before they were boiled. As she stepped out into the little alley, she nearly tripped over a gunny sack that had been left unceremoniously next to the step. Picking it up, she felt the edges of a box within, but the mouth of the sack was tied firmly with twine, so she brought it back into the kitchen, where she put it on the table with a heavy clunk.

Serena looked up from where she and Jasmine were cataloguing the gifts received so far in a ruled ledger. “What you got there, Donna? Don’t suppose it’s coffee, is it?” she asked hopefully. Good coffee was a rare commodity out West, and it was one of the few luxuries she really missed.

“I don’t think so, ma’am. It’s too heavy - feels kinda solid. Whatever it is, they’ve tied it up real good.” She was struggling to get purchase on the tightly knotted twine, and in the end Serena came to the rescue with a kitchen knife. She slid it under the twine and pulled it up sharply, and the hessian folded softly outwards, revealing a polished walnut box inlaid with brass swirls. She gave a low whistle as she lifted it clear of the sack.

“Well, that’s one fancy little box. What do you reckon, girls? A nice set of knives? Cuban cigars - no, too heavy. Let’s have a look. Oh - who on earth would give us a locked box and not provide the key?” She exclaimed in exasperation, but Donna’s eagle eyes spotted a tiny brass key tangled up in the twine. She passed it wordlessly to Serena, her eyes wide with anticipation.

“All righty, then. Let’s see what we got here.” Serena fitted the key to the lock and twisted it tentatively. It opened smoothly and silently - it had clearly been kept in good working order and oiled recently. She lifted the lid and gasped as she saw two identical pistols lying side by side in the velvet casing. They too were gleaming with a light coating of oil, and looked brand new, but when Serena picked one up cautiously for a closer look, she saw the figure 1851 stamped into the barrel. She gave a low whistle.

“Who in the name of all that’s unholy has given us Navy revolvers?”

If anything, Donna’s eyes had grown even wider, and she pointed to a small envelope tucked into the lining of the box. Serena took it and peered at the small, neat writing.

“Well, it’s someone who knows my name, but that don’t narrow it down much. Give me that knife, would you?” She slit the envelope, and read aloud.

“ _I am sorry I was too late. These are to make sure he does not do it again. Your friend_.” She looked up at the girls, curiosity evident in her gaze. “There’s no signature here, no name. _Your friend_ \- why, that might be anyone. And what do they mean, too late? Do you know the writing, either of you?” She showed them the note, and they puzzled over it, but were none the wiser.

“Looks like a lady’s hand,” Jasmine ventured. “All small and tidy looking. Pretty educated, too - _does not do it again_ \- I don't know anyone as writes fancy like that apart from you, ma’am.” Serena’s frown demanded an explanation. “I mean most folks would say, _so he don’t do it again_ \- but this is proper, though, ain’t it?”

Serena was thoughtful. She put the weapon back in its box and closed the lid. “What do you make of that?” She asked gesturing at the swirls and curlicues of brass worked into the fine wood. “Looks like letters - somebody’s monogram, you think?”

It took a little working out, but they eventually agreed that the box had once belonged to somebody with the initials GNW. Their efforts took them no further, however, as none of them could think of a soul in town whose name fitted the initials, or even any of the town’s womenfolk who might have been Williams or Wilkinsons before they married.

“The note, though,” mused Serena. “I got an idea about that. The sack was out the back, you said, Donna? Just up against the steps? Well that was just exactly where I found Mr Copeland, God rest his soul. _Sorry I was too late_ , they say - well, whoever brought him here was too late, sure enough. And we all know who they mean when they say he mustn’t do it again. Someone in this town wants us to be able to protect ourselves against Guy Self - and it’s the same someone that brought poor Dominic home to us. Well, that makes them a friend, whoever it is. And they’re right - it’s time you girls learned how to handle a weapon.”

And so sharp shooting was added to the already unorthodox curriculum of what Serena privately thought of as Holby University’s McKinnie School of Medicine. Medicine was the university’s only faculty, and she was its only professor, but she was determined that one day, a fine university would grace the young city, and it would trace its roots right back to Serena McKinnie and her girls.

In between shifts in the busy bar and their full programme of anatomy, biology and general science lessons, Morven, Jasmine and Donna learned to clean, load and shoot the handguns, as well as the shotgun Serena kept under lock and key in her rooms. She herself had learned to handle firearms in the bad old days of the war, and had fired in anger many a time, though never to kill. More than once, she had wounded a man to preserve her own modesty, only to stitch him up afterwards and send him limping on his way. Her unique combination of skills had seen her thrive and prosper out here in the West, and she had the respect of the town, however odd they thought her.

When she had first arrived in Holby City, she had attracted the attention of many a red-blooded male, but she had dealt with them firmly but kindly - though in some case, just extremely firmly - and it had become understood that Serena McKinnie was to be respected as a sharp businesswoman, a good hotelier and a damn good doctor. Those who had doubted a mere woman could hold down a medical practice out here in these wild parts had been persuaded otherwise when, within the space of a twelvemonth, she had contained an outbreak of smallpox; saved both mother and the baby when a young woman had been knocked over by a runaway horse in the ninth month of her pregnancy, and had amputated the arm of poor Reverend Digby when he got it trapped between heavy timbers during the building of the church, and seemed sure to die of gangrene. He had recovered well, and said cheerfully that you didn’t need two arms to pray.

Since then, the town had considered her a pillar of their community, and as her skill as a doctor was matched by her firm hand as a hotelier, the little outpost had begun to clean up its act and was now by and large a respectable place. The wilder elements still persisted around the edges of town and out on the remoter ranches, and they occasionally brought trouble into town, but Sheriff Levy had always managed it pretty well - until Guy Self had taken to drink and shown his true colours. He had always been a surly man, but when his mother died, a kind of madness came over him - Serena had always suspected it was more relief than grief - and while his daughter Zosia and her companion Miss Naylor kept him pretty well in line most of the time, when he had the drink in him, there was no holding him back, and Dominic’s was just the latest in a long line of crosses in the graveyard that Mr Self had put there.

In the days after Dominic had been found by the back porch, the hotel’s customers had talked of little else. Mr Fletcher was one of many who just couldn’t understand how Miss Self and Miss Naylor could stand living with such a brute.

“I know Miss Naylor has a backbone like a railroad spike, but little Miss Zosia’s such a sweet little thing, I don't know how she can stand it!”

Serena, who had sometimes been called out to attend Zosia Self during what the townsfolk described as her hysterical episodes, bit back a reply that there was more to that young lady than met the eye, but reminded Mr Fletcher that Self’s dragon of a mother had seen to it that no woman with an ounce of grit need fear the drunkard.

“I told you before, he can’t stand a strong woman, but there ain’t a man alive as can get the better of Guy Self.”

In the pause that followed her exclamation, Serena heard the unmistakable sound of spurs clinking as a rider dismounted just outside the hotel, and there was a low chuckle from the street.

She whipped her head round to see the saloon doors swing open, revealing a tall figure whose long, lean legs were encased in dusty leather chaps. Beneath a long riding coat, a black waistcoat bore the distinctive star of office, and with a tip of a wide brimmed hat, a deep voice spoke low and quiet.

“Well then, ma’am, it’s a good job that Bernie Wolfe ain’t no man.”


	4. A New Sheriff In Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman as sheriff? The townsfolk are sceptical, but Serena proves an advocate and ally for Sheriff Wolfe. While Bernie is fixing up the gaolhouse ready for use, Serena invites her to stay at McKinnie’s hotel, and the two become firm friends.

You could have heard a pin drop in the stunned pause that followed. Indeed, it was the dropping of a whiskey glass from the shock-slackened grip of Mr Fletcher’s fingers that broke the silence.

“What the - why, I don’t mean no disrespect, ma’am - sir - ma’am... uh, ma’am - but a woman can’t be a sheriff! It just ain’t right!”

There was a murmur of assent from the customers gathered in the saloon bar, and even Donna shook her head uncertainly. But Serena rounded on them with a glint in her eye, and a strangely triumphant smile playing on her lips.

“Why, were you not listening to me? Did I not this very minute say that no man could take on Guy Self? That he can’t abide a strong woman? Well, would you just take a look at Sheriff Wolfe here - did you ever see a stronger looking woman?” As the patrons of McKinnie’s gawped at the unfamiliar sight of a woman in pants and a five gallon hat, Serena’s own gaze swept appreciatively up the form of the tall stranger, finally meeting a pair of eyes as dark and as amused as her own. She stepped up boldly and held out a hand.

“Sheriff Wolfe, I’m mighty glad to make your acquaintance. Serena McKinnie, proprietor of this here establishment, and Surgeon General of Holby City.”

The sheriff took the offered hand and shook it as firmly as any man, as though testing the mettle of the bold woman before her.

“Miss McKinnie,” she acknowledged. “So you’re the local sawbones, huh? Ain’t never met a lady selling snake oil before.”

Serena bristled, and puffed herself up, knowing a challenge when she saw one. “I’m a bit more than a sawbones, Sheriff. I’m a doctor and a surgeon out of the New England Hospital - and as for snake oil, if I ever catch anyone trying to peddle that nonsense in my town, they’ll feel the toe of my boot! And if we’re trading surprises, ain’t no-one ever met a lady sheriff before, but I say it’s high time we showed the men how to keep order - Lord knows I been doing it well enough in this hotel for fifteen years and more.”

Sheriff Wolfe gazed implacably at the spitfire before her for a long moment, then a grin broke across her face, and the loudest, most joyful laugh Serena had ever heard suddenly filled the bar.

“I believe we’ll get along just fine, Dr McKinnie,” she said. “This Mr Self of yours might not like a strong woman, but I surely do.”

Serena’s smile was bright and genuine. “Well, I do believe I might finally have met my equal. And it’s not Doctor - it’s Miss McKinnie. A surgeon don’t need puffing up with grand titles - we’re quite grand enough on our own merit,” she winked. “Miss Jackson, a drink for our new sheriff, if you please - on the house.”

Donna poured a generous shot of sipping whiskey and slid it along the bar, where Sheriff Wolfe stopped it neatly without even seeming to look at it.

“Much obliged to you, Miss McKinnie, Miss Jackson,” she murmured. “Now, where are my manners,” she smiled. She took off her hat, revealing a head of fine blonde hair, tied back and tucked into the kerchief at her neck. She raised her glass to the ladies and took a drink, raising an eyebrow in pleased surprise at the quality of the liquor. “Well, you just got yourself a new regular,” she drawled with a wink.

“What we just got ourselves is a new sheriff, and not before time. Gentlemen, raise your glasses to Sheriff Wolfe - go on, you too, Mr Fletcher!” With varying degrees of puzzlement and reluctance, the assembled customers toasted her with a muttered chorus of “Sheriff Wolfe,” and Serena drew her to a table in the corner while the normal chatter gradually resumed in the bar.

“Take the weight off your feet, ma’am, and tell me how you come to be wearing that pretty star of yours,” she smiled.

“Why don’t we have a bit less of this formality now we’re friends? It’s just Bernie to you - if I can call you Serena? Well, good. So. I met a pant-wetting man-baby out on the trail a few days back, dragging his feet, crying like a lovesick milkmaid. Turned out he’d been run out of town by this Guy Self feller - and I allowed he didn’t ought to be wearing a star if he weren’t man enough to stay and put him right - so I relieved him of it. I guess you might say I’m kind of self-appointed.”

Serena gave a short, bitter laugh. “That would have been Sheriff Medcalf - our shortest lived lawman ever. He got off the stage, barged in here, Mr Self shot his feet out from under him and away he ran - couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Mr Levy, sheriff before him, was a good man, but Mr Self took a shine to his woman, and they decided to get out of town for a quiet life. Sheriff Mayfield’s in the graveyard with Mr Self’s bullet through his black heart, and there’s three before that that disappeared or quit. You picked a tough town to lay down the law, I’ll warn you now.”

Bernie took another slow swig of whiskey. “But all the real trouble comes from one man, you’d say? One that don’t know how to stand up to a woman? I’ll take my chances.”

They sat for a long while, Donna topping up their glasses from time to time as Serena gave Bernie the lowdown on all the town’s trouble-makers and rabble-rousers. As the light dimmed, Morven came to take over from Donna, and lit the kerosene lamps to brighten the place up, and Serena looked up, suddenly aware of how much time had passed.

“I’m sorry, Bernie - you’ll be wanting to get to your lodgings. Where are you bunking down?”

“I figured I’d sleep in one of the cells if you can show me where the gaolhouse is? Town this size must have a few cells, right?”

Serena grimaced. “Well, we have, but I wouldn’t recommend you stay there. Whole place needs a good clean out - it ain’t hardly fit for pigs, let alone people - even the criminal kind. We’ve been without a sheriff for a while now, and it’s kind of gone to ruin. Why don’t you stay here a while until you sort yourself out? We’ve got plenty of rooms - I don’t hardly admit guests these days, so you can take your pick. Morven! Would you call Jasmine out here? I got a job for her.”

When Jasmine came out from the kitchen, drying her hands on a rag, Serena asked her to prepare a room for Bernie - “Make it one of the old suites, you hear me? Nothing but the best for our new sheriff.”

“Why don’t I make up the room across the way from yours, Miss Campbell? It’s been locked up since Mr Copeland… since last week, I reckon it could do with airing now, and it’s a good room.”

“No!” Serena snapped, almost before she had finished speaking. “No, not that room. I don’t want it disturbed. You make up one of the rooms upstairs from me - it’ll be quieter for the sheriff. Go on, get to it!”

Chastened, Jasmine scurried off to prepare the room, and after a moment’s silence, Bernie asked, “Who’s Mr Copeland?”

Serena glanced over to the bar, where a daguerreotype hung on the wall, draped with a swag of black crêpe. “Mr Copeland - Dominic - was my right hand man. He was my assistant doctor - a damn good one - and he ran the bar here. Last week, he stood between me and Guy Self when things got a little out of hand. The next morning, we found him beaten to a pulp just outside the hotel. We did our best, but - well, you’ll find a wooden cross with his name on down in the graveyard.” She bowed her head, and dabbed the corner of her eye with a lace edged handkerchief.

Bernie put a warm, dry hand over her own and said, “I’m sorry, Serena. He must have meant a great deal to you.”

“Nearest thing I’ll ever have to a boy of my own, I reckon. I know it’s foolish and sentimental, but I can’t bear to have anyone go in his room just yet.”

Bernie squeezed the hand beneath hers and said stoutly, “It ain’t foolish at all. Some of us, we make our own families where we find them. He sounds like a good and brave man - just the kind of son I’d expect someone like you to raise. And there ain’t no reason to disturb his room - I’m most grateful for any room at all.”

Serena smiled gratefully at her new friend’s understanding, and before long, Bernie was settled in a suite of rooms at the top of the hotel, the bedroom directly above Serena’s.

***

Over the next few days, whenever one of the girls could be spared from work or study, Serena sent them over to the gaolhouse to help Bernie scrub out the cells and organise the little office that had fallen into such disarray since Sacha Levy had left town. One by one, they cleaned out the five small cells, and Mr Fletcher’s eldest boy, Mikey, took great delight in applying whitewash liberally to the walls. On seeing the state of the blankets, Bernie promptly burned them in the yard, and Serena sent over a bundle that had been donated after the demise of Mr Copeland and had been washed and aired since.

Donna, who may have been bottom of their little class when it came to science lessons, excelled at the administrative tasks required to sort out the paperwork in the office, and within days they had a gaolhouse ready to receive visitors - and Bernie wasted no time inviting them in. She spent long hours poring over the records that Sheriff Levy had left behind, and drew up a mental list of the men - and women - to watch out for, and trouble spots to patrol. Her most frequent guests were the over-enthusiastic drinkers who raised a ruckus after closing time, for Bernie was determined that the streets would be quiet at night. Men who beat their wives received short shrift and a week in the cells, and the occasional cattle thief spent a few nights awaiting relocating to the county gaol to meet their judgement.

Like Serena before her, Bernie Wolfe soon made it known that she was not to be trifled with, and any man fool enough to underestimate her on account of her gender soon learned his mistake. She was almost as strong as a man, and twice as smart: lean and slender she may be, but she knew how to use her meagre weight, and was clearly no stranger to combat, either hand to hand or with the pistol or shotgun. She had proved her credentials as a sharpshooter one afternoon when a gang of marauding bandits rode into town, having heard that a mere woman was standing between them and lawlessness. They had barely ridden into town when Bernie strode through the door of the gaolhouse, a shotgun in hand and her pistols at her hip. The riders didn’t even have time to dismount before she was firing on them, her aim so sharp that a row of five tall hats now adorned the wall in the office, a neat hole in the crown of each.

“I’ll aim two inches lower next time,” she had called after them, and they had not returned.

In spite of having cleaned up the cells, Bernie had not moved into one of them as she had first planned. For one thing, she was keeping them pretty well filled, and she took turns with several of the local worthies to sit up nights keeping watch over them. On the nights when she was not on duty, she would retire to the hotel, sometimes providing a steadying presence in the bar, sometimes sitting reading in her own rooms, but would always join Serena after the last stragglers had been ejected late at night, and the girls had been sent to bed. It had become their habit to end the day together in Serena’s private parlour, with a glass of whiskey or a bottle of Serena’s precious supply of French wine, and a soft, quiet conversation about their day.

Bernie always took an interest in the medical and surgical cases that Serena had seen during the day, as well as in the progress of her protégées. In her turn, Serena took gleeful delight - or sometimes a somber satisfaction - in hearing tales of the gaolhouse’s current occupants. She was often able to give Bernie a little more detail about the circumstances of their visiting the gaol, as she had been in the town long enough to know every soul in it - and indeed, had brought many of them into the world.

Whatever the day had brought either of them, this night-time ritual had become as important a part of their routine as eating, dressing and sleeping, and after the first week, there was no more talk of Bernie’s moving out. The last thing either of them saw each night was the warm smile of a friend and kindred spirit, and they parted every night with a touch that was less than an embrace, but more than a handshake. Serena had always been an independent woman and had never felt the lack of friendship, but now she wondered how she had ever filled those long evenings before Bernie Wolfe had come to keep her company.


	5. Snake Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sheriff Wolfe cleans up the town, newcomers are drawn in: some who will stay and contribute to the success of the growing city - and others, who will be invited to leave with immediate effect. Ordinarily, it’s Bernie who sends the cheaters and frauds on their way, but when a charlatan comes to town with his medicine show, it’s Serena’s turn to shine.

Bernie’s clean-up of Holby City continued apace, and she closed down the badly run stills out in the sticks, bringing further custom to the bar of McKinnie’s Hotel. It wasn’t just the bar that was busy now, though, as word of the safer streets of the now more respectable town was spreading, and folk were starting to come from out of town to see what new opportunities a young city with an honest sheriff might provide.

A young Italian doctor had come to town looking for work, and Serena had taken Mr di Lucca on to manage the duties once undertaken by Mr Copeland. He had proved himself a competent surgeon and a good general doctor, and she was glad of his help. To the great relief of the ranch owners and cattlemen of the area, a blacksmith had come to visit his old friend Sacha Levy, not having heard of his troubles. Eric Griffin was content to stay in town for a while and take on the smithing duties that had been sorely missed - and proved himself a champion bare-knuckle fighter, too.

Such a man was bound to win the respect of the men, and the admiration of the ladies, and he soon became a popular figure about town. Sacha had told him about his friends in Holby City, and he had looked Serena out at the earliest opportunity. They found they had a great deal in common, and shared an easy companionship that saw him at the hotel many an evening. It didn’t hurt to have a decent man around who was known to be handy with his fists, and his reputation, combined with Bernie’s steady presence, ensured that while a good time was to be had at McKinnie’s, it never got out of hand, and the girls were afforded respect by any gentleman who wished to be able to return there subsequently.

Guy Self had kept out of the way since his last confrontation with Serena, which had come to such a tragic conclusion, but she knew it would only be a matter of time before he got restless and cocky enough to venture back into town, and she told Bernie as much.

“He’ll have heard all about you by now - he might be cowed by women like us, but he’ll be curious all the same. How long you been here now? Must be a couple of months or more, and he’s not set foot in town. You closed down all the other places he normally goes to drink - man like him can’t stay away from drink even if he knows it’ll kill him, so if I’m serving the only liquor for miles around, he’ll be here sooner or later - and it’s my guess it’ll be sooner.”

Bernie leaned back, rocking until the back of her chair hit the wall behind her. “Let him come,” she said comfortably. “I’ll be ready for him if he wants to make any trouble. But he’s out of favour with pretty much the whole town from what I hear - your Mr Copeland must have been a pretty special kind of man, the way folk talk about him. They wont forgive Guy Self in a hurry.” She looked kindly at Serena. “And I know they won’t forget your boy Dominic, either. I wish I’d met him.”

Serena smiled. “You'd like him, Bernie, you really would. A real ray of sunshine, our Dominic, and clever, too. There’s plenty of men in this town owe him their life - and a whole heap more with a dashing scar instead of a disfigured face. You never saw such neat needlework. Mr di Lucca does just fine, but Dominic - well, that’s something else.” Her voice was full of affection, and Bernie looked at her curiously for a moment, then shook her head.

“Well, Mr Self don’t worry me none. I’m thinking he’ll have heard word about what I’ve been doing in town - I guess we’ll see whether it warns him off or sets him a challenge.”

Serena smiled proudly at her. “He surely must have heard by now - you’ve done so much for our little city! The gutrot stills have gone, my gentlemen are behaving themselves a whole lot nicer, and I believe Mrs Jameson hasn't had a black eye in a month or more now. It feels like there ain’t a whole lot more for you to do by way of cleaning up Holby City.”

Bernie laughed, and rapped her knuckles sharply on the bar, once, twice. “You’re tempting fate with that sort of talk! There’s plenty to keep me busy the number of incomers we’re getting now - you never know who’s riding in to town ready to start a fight.”

***

Her words proved to be prescient, for only a day or two later, the relative peace of the high street was shattered by what sounded like a carnival coming to town.

Such a clatter and confusion had never been heard in Holby City as was caused by the brightly painted caravan that rolled along the high street. It was pulled by two high-stepping horses: a black mare and a handsome grey gelding, their manes brushed and braided with coloured ribbons, their coats combed to a glossy shine. On the driver’s seat, the reins held loosely in his hands, sat a sturdy young man in a smart suit of a military cut with gold braid frogging on the breast, and a pill box hat strapped tightly at a jaunty angle. High atop the caravan, like a Maharajah on his elephant, sat a very fine gentleman indeed, in a long tailed purple velvet coat, striped grey trousers, and the highest, shiniest tall hat that anyone had ever seen. His waxed whiskers and pointed beard were every bit as fine as his apparel, and a sign painted on the side of the caravan introduced him as:

_Professor J. Gaskell, Esq._  
_Purveyor of Patent Medicines_  
_To the Royalty of Europe_  
_To the Aristocracy of the Colonies_  
_And to Chief Kickapoo of the Sagwa Tribe_

In smaller print below, a legend read: _Licensed to prescribe, dispense and sell remedies by the New England Society of Medical, Surgical and Pharmaceutical Practitioners._

Serena nudged Bernie with her elbow and scoffed. “New England Society of what? Ain’t no such thing that I ever heard of, and if anyone would know, it’s me - might be a while since I got my medical degree out there, but I keep up with things, and I’m telling you, that’s about as genuine as a unicorn’s horn.”

Bernie looked at the caravan with narrowed eyes, and a hint of a smirk on her face. Truth be told, life had been getting a bit quiet for her liking of late. She felt about ready to get her teeth into something juicy, but Serena saw the look in her her eye, and pre-empted her.

“Oh, no, Sheriff Wolfe - this one’s mine. You can have him when I’ve done with him - deal?”

Bernie laughed. “All right - as long as it don’t get nasty, he’s all yours. But if he sets a foot out of line, he’s mine. You got yourself a deal, Miss McKinnie.” She stuck her hand out for Serena to take, and they shook on their agreement, their grip as firm as it had been on their first encounter.

As the professor started setting up his pitch aided by the young man in the uniform, a small crowd gathered around the caravan. Out come Morven and Donna, reassuring Serena that Mr di Lucca and Jasmine had everything in hand in the saloon bar - not that there were many patrons this morning, as half the town were out here by the caravan, chattering excitedly. Morven was no exception, and she shifted from foot to foot like a nervous filly, enthralled by the spectacle of the whole thing - the caravan, the fine clothes, the fancy bottles and packets that were going on display.

“Can you believe it Donna, a real college professor come to little old Holby! Don't he look dandy? And that young feller, too - do you suppose he’s a soldier?”

“He looks more like a bell boy to me,” Donna returned, a look on her face that suggested she wasn’t impressed by either one of them, but Morven’s enthusiasm wasn’t to be dampened.

“All those potions and pills - why, we should try an get hold of ’em and analyse them - or maybe the professor would come and give us a private lesson - what do you think, Miss McKinnie? Oh, and look at that lady’s dress - over there, in green - I do believe it’s silk. Mmm, emerald silk, wouldn’t that look fine with my skin? Who is she, anyway? She looks like a real fine lady.”

“Darned if I know,” Serena said, her eyes narrowed, “I never saw her before in my life.”

Just then, the Professor turned to the crowd, ready now to start his grand performance, and Serena leaned in towards her two charges, a cynical expression on her face. “We’re going to get a lesson all right - in stagecraft. Watch and learn, girls.”

She had never spoken a truer word, for within moments, the noisy crowd was hushed, and the charismatic professor had them in the palm of his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for you warm welcome to the magnificent metropolis of Holby City. I declare, I’ve travelled the length and breadth of this nation of ours and never seen a finer city, nor met such handsome and charming citizens.

“My name is Professor John Gaskell, as you see from my ve-hickle here, and I come to you directly from the New England Society of Medical, Surgical and Pharmaceutical Practitioners.” He tapped each word with the end of his silver-tipped cane as he pronounced it. “May I introduce my assistant and apprentice, Mr Oliver Valentine?” The young man tugged awkwardly at the tight strap beneath his chin, and gave a surly bow to the crowd.

“Now, I wonder, ladies and gentlemen, is your fine city blessed with the presence of a doctor?”

Serena smiled secretly at this attempt to gauge how much he would be able to get away with, and kept her peace, but Mr Fletcher cried out, “Doctor McKinnie keeps us whole in body and mind, Professor!”

An anxious crease appeared on the professor’s brow. “And tell me, is Doctor McKinnie present here today?”

Serena rolled her eyes at Mr Fletcher, and raised her hand to acknowledge the professor. “Miss Serena McKinnie, sir, at your service.”

The relief on the professor’s face was laughable. “Oh, good morning, ma’am. You ladies do marvellous work in soothing the fevered brows of our poorly children, but I’m more than delighted to bring you the support of a genuine qualified real doctor today.”

Serena inclined her head graciously, and replied meekly, “I’m indebted to you, Professor. I can’t _wait_ to hear what you’ve got to tell us all.”

He beamed, and launched into what was obviously a very well rehearsed speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my mission in life has always been to heal, and my studies in the aforementioned arts and sciences over many years have brought me to this happy moment in the history of medicine, whereby I am able to bring you the wondrous news that I have discovered the remedy for _all_ your ills and pains.”

He swept a velvet-clad arm in a magnificent gesture across the trestle table where he and Mr Valentine had artfully arranged bottles, vials, boxes, packets and papers, and in a voice laden with import, he made his great declaration.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Holby City, I give you _Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea For All That Ails You!_ ”

He left a pause to allow for applause and gasps of astonishment, and the crowd did not disappoint him, surging forward to try and glimpse the wonder medicine. Serena was as curious as anyone to see what he was passing off as the cure for all ills, and she saw with amusement that although the boxes and bottles came in all shapes and sizes, they all bore the same legend of Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You, with various claims of complaints it would cure, along with testimonials from satisfied patients.

“Let me tell you that name again, ladies and gentlemen: Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You. Use it as a liniment, use it as an elixir, use it as a poultice. Gentlemen, does you hairline recede? Do you suffer from dyspepsia, heartburn, dissipation or _con_ stipation? Are you in need of… enhancement? Do you suffer from reduced - ahem - stamina?

“Ladies, are you troubled with the vapours? Do you suffer with _mee_ -graines? Trouble of an indelicate nature with the caller who comes but once a month? Does your ardor require constraining? Are you visited by unhealthy thoughts and urges? Sleeplessness, lethargy or night horrors?

“Does your baby suffer with colic? Teething pains? Trouble sleeping? Trouble waking? Rub a little of Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You on his gums, and he will be restored to full health in the twinkling of an eye!

“Take Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You as an inhalation! Take it as an infusion! As a tincture! As a balsam! A nostrum! A seltzer!

“Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You thins the blood! It revitalises the liver, soothes the stomach, stimulates the bowels, invigorates the brain!

“Ladies and gentlemen, take Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You for cow pox, for chicken pox, for small pox - even (whisper it softly, gentlemen) for the _other_ pox.

“Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You will bring relief from scarlet fever, from yellow fever - but ladies and gentlemen, even I can’t do nothing about _gold_ fever!” He chuckled, and the crowd laughed with him.

“For headaches, for the toothache, for back ache, even for face ache - oh, no, not you, madam! - Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You!” His tone changed now from his recitative to a more conversational note.

“Now, I wonder, has anyone here in Holby City encountered my medicines before? Is there anybody here as could testify as to the efficacy of Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You? Why, yes, you there madam - how do you do?”

He smiled and gestured encouragingly to the woman in the emerald dress whom Morven had pointed out earlier. The woman looked about her with fluttering eyelashes and a hand pressed to her breast, as if to say, “Who, me?”

“Oh, good day, sir, Professor!” She twittered. “Why yes, I _have_ taken the cure!” She jostled and bustled about excitedly, as though she had never been the centre of attention before now, and didn’t know what to do with herself.

“And may I say, madam, very well you look upon it, too - are your spirits as high as your colour?”

“Oh, my! My colour… I declare! Well, I am certainly in good spirits sir, ever since I took Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You. Before I took it, I was listless, lethargic and lazy, and now I am vibrant, invigorated, and full of vim, sir!”

 _Well, that rolled off her tongue very readily,_ thought Serena.

The Professor continued his interview. “And how would you describe your recovery from this sad state into the fine, healthy, and may I say, _beautiful_ specimen of womanhood we see before us today?”

“Oh, Professor, really, you mustn’t! That is to say, why, thank you Professor, I’m sure!” She simpered, and turned to address the gathering crowd. “Well, truly, ladies and gentlemen, I can only say it was miracle - a miracle, I say!”

Serena had had enough of this charade, and she elbowed her way to the front of the crown, tugging Morven and Donna along in her wake.

“Why, that sounds marvellous, ma’am, truly it does. I'm sure Professor Gaskell won’t mind if a fellow physician asks you a few questions? Now, tell me, if you can, what was the precise nature of your complaint?”

The woman’s eyes flicked nervously to the makeshift stage, but the professor just smiled encouragingly at her with a little nod.

“Well, I - I don’t like to say, ma’am. It’s - it’s kinda of personal. I guess it was just a sort of general malaise,” - another glance to the professor - “yes, a general malaise and - and - and a kind of - uh, lethargy?” She started to warm to it now. “Yes, lethargy, and listlessness, and -” Serena notice now that the woman’s eyes were drawn to the array of medicines, and laughed inwardly as she stared reciting all the complaints she could see described on the various packages.

“Well, dyspepsia, and insomnia, and night horrors, and dissipation, and reduced stamina -” the professor was glaring at here now, making a brusque gesture for her to stop talking, but she was in full flow, too nervous to stop.

“I had the toothache, and the cow pox, and the yellow fever, and the vapours like you wouldn’t believe, ma’am!”

Serena rocked back on her heels for a moment, enjoying herself tremendously. “I see. Goodness, you were under the weather, weren’t you? Thank goodness you were able to procure a dose of - let me see - Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You in time! Tell me, what dose _did_ you take? I mean to say, did you find the liniment or the tincture more effective? Did the inhalation relieve your dyspepsia? Was the syrup effective in enhancing your, uh, stamina?” There was a stifled snigger from more than one of the gentlemen at this. “And perhaps it was the powder that cured your yellow fever? Because I must say, that truly _is_ a miraculous recovery!

Under Serena’s questioning, the woman grew increasingly anxious, and her expression evolved rapidly through a series of emotions ranging from irritation to nervousness, to desperation until it eventually reached panic, and she swung round to make frantic eye contact with the Professor.

“Cousin John! What do I say? I don’t know what to say! You told me these simple hicks would believe anything, you never said they’d ask all these questions!”

The Professor’s voice was as thunderous as his expression. “Cousin Imelda, will you hold your tongue!”

“Oh-ho!” crowed Serena. “Cousin Imelda, is it? Professor Gaskell didn’t pick you out of the crowd quite by accident, then, hey? Pfft! _Professor_ Gaskell! Professor Flim-Flam, more like!”

Cousin Imelda’s carefully cultivated neutral MidWestern tones suddenly slipped, and in a brassy New York honk, she declared, “Flim-Flam? Why, I oughta-” But Bernie had stepped in close, and she subsided at the sight of the sheriff’s star.

Serena turned to the display of medicines, and nodded at Morven, who passed her each product in turn. She shook out the powder onto her palm, examined it, and pronounced, “Corn starch,” as she let the wind carry it off in a cloud. The pills were nothing more than chalk; the oil, pure linseed; the tincture, rubbing alcohol, and the seltzer was simple well water, without even a hint of fizz to it.

“At least the syrup is syrup of figs - why, this one might actually do you some good,” Serena told the crowd, who were enjoying Serena’s performance even more than they had enjoyed “Professor” Gaskell’s. “Though it wouldn’t do much for your - loose bowels,” she said, glancing at the label. “Quite the reverse, in fact!”

She turned to Gaskell. “Now, sir. My medical degree is from the New England Hospital, and I am a regular correspondent and contributor to their fine journal, and darned if I or any of my colleagues ever heard of the New England Society of Medical, Surgical and Pharmaceutical Practitioners, for as a surgeon of some twenty five years’ experience, I would surely be a member. Holby City already has a doctor, as Mr Fletcher told you, but if we ever need a clown, we’ll be sure to let you know. Now, I suggest you pack your corn starch and your linseed oil back into your fancy caravan, and take your Cousin Imelda and your performing monkey out of town, and keep on travelling.”

But Gaskell was already angrily flinging his wares back into the caravan, moodily assisted by Mr Valentine. Cousin Imelda, enraged at being made a fool of, set up a vile haranguing of Serena and Morven, and when Bernie loomed over her to intervene, she rounded on the sheriff.

“And you’re no better than these whores, you so-called sheriff! Whoever heard of a woman doctor, or a woman sheriff? Why in the hell would you wear a man’s clothes, anyway?”

“That’s not a story _you’ve_ got time to hear, ma’am,” Bernie said in a voice that was low and even, but as steely as anything Serena had ever heard. Imelda recoiled, but prepared to launch in again.

“What sort of goddamn freak are you, anyways? Hey, I -” But thankfully, her cousin John had pulled her bodily up on to the caravan at this point, and with an angry glare at Serena, he gee’d the horses up, and what had seemed like a carnival as they entered town now left looking like a motley crew of tinkers. The good folk of Holby hooted and hollered at them until they were little more than a cloud of dust, and as the throng gradually dispersed, half the men in town retired to McKinnie’s to toast their very own resident professor.

***

In Serena’s rooms that evening, they sat sharing their customary nightcap and laughed again over the memory of the so-called professor’s face when he realised he had been outwitted.

“I ought to hire you as a detective, Serena - who needs Pinkerton’s when you’ve got McKinnie? You let them talk themselves right into a corner - fine work, ma’am, fine work.”

Serena smiled and touched her wine glass against the tumbler of whiskey Bernie had raised to her. She settled back in her chair, looking out over the streets kissed by the early evening sun. She felt so contented: a good and fun day’s work, the satisfaction of discrediting a man whose trade she felt stood to damage her own profession, and now the comfortable company of a good friend. But there was something niggling at her, a vague sense of absence that she could not put her finger on. Why, now that she had more than she had ever dreamed of, should she feel that something was missing? She gave a little shiver to shake off whatever it was.

“We do make a good team, don’t we? McKinnie and Wolfe. Wolfe and McKinnie. McWolfe.” They laughed together, warm and easy.

“Bernie, can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” she replied. “You know that.”

“That terrible woman - Cousin Imelda - she asked about your clothes, why you dress like you do, and you kinda told her it was a long story. I don’t need to hear it if you don’t want to tell it - but I’d like to, if you _do_ want to?”

Looking out of the window and taking in the beauty of the sunset, Bernie took a long slow breath. It had been such a long time since she had talked to anyone about the things that had made her who she was, she wasn’t sure if she could even speak it aloud. But if she was ever going to trust anyone with her story, she knew it would be Serena McKinnie.

“All right. I’ll keep talking just as long as you keep my glass topped up.” She looked at the whiskey bottle and hoped that it wouldn’t take the whole thing to get her tale out, at the same time wondering if there was enough whiskey in the world to finish it.

 


	6. The Ballad of Bernie Wolfe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie tells Serena her tale - and it’s one of murder, betrayal and desperate loss. It takes her from her New York home down to the pre-abolition Deep South, and through war-torn Virginia. The things that made Bernie Wolfe who she is are terrible indeed, and only the strongest of women could have survived them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for mention of sexual coercion, murder and slavery.
> 
> This is the Chapter of Angst, folks, with really no redeeming humour. There’s a summary at the end if you would prefer to read that just so you know where the story’s going.
> 
> I’ve been as respectful of American history as I can be. I’ve chosen not to use the kind of language that would have been used regarding slaves and slavery, but there’s no getting away from it: slavery itself is the most abhorrent idea, and it is in this chapter, so feel free to skip it if you prefer.
> 
> Back to lighter stuff next chapter, I promise.

My daddy was a doctor, you know - did I ever tell you that? Army surgeon - Major Gerald Wolfe, Her Majesty’s Irish Guards. Saw some action in his younger days, then when he was invalided out, he couldn’t settle to civilian life - too dull, too tame, too - I don’t know, too civilised, I guess. He was looking for something bigger than a quiet retired life in a respectable part of Dublin. So when he heard they’d struck gold - well, he dropped his solid, boring medical practice and became a prospector, over in California. One of the original forty-niners, real pioneering legend, you know?

He did well for himself - he always said he had the luck of the Irish, but he had more than that. He knew how to look after himself - a wild Irisher for all his education, and years of service in the army, he knew how to use his fists, and he knew how to use a gun. When he wasn’t prospecting, he was doctoring - you’d better believe there was a whole heap of bullets to dig out of men’s backs in those days, and knife wounds a-plenty to practice your embroidery on.

Anyway, what with that and his good fortune in the goldfields, he did all right for himself. He had a good head on him: he got in early, and he got out early, too, before the gold starting drying up and things got ugly. He never let himself get gold fever - some of those old boys, they made a fortune, then lost it all looking for more. But he judged he’d made enough to set himself up afresh, and he saw what the yellow stuff could do to a man, so he went back East, to New York, got himself a wife, and took up the law. He couldn’t never settle to one thing for long, that man, and I guess I’m just like him.

Well. Things went the way they usually do, and along came me and my brother Cameron, not half an hour between us. We grew up real close - did everything together as much as we could - we played together, had the same schooling, the same friends, until my Ma figured it weren’t right for me to associate with the boys. I still did though, you’d better believe it. Used to sneak out and meet them all the time. Cameron was my best friend, and I was his - we weren’t going to be separated by something as stupid as growing up.

Ma and Pa didn’t have no more after us. I don’t know whether they couldn’t, or if they decided not to - but they were content, I believe, with me and Cam. You never saw two people so in love, even though he was twenty years older than her. They were pretty comfortable - you know, soldiering, medicine, gold and law ain’t a bad career for a man, so they were never short of money. We had servants, but never slaves, not even in those bad old days. They didn’t hold with it, and they both campaigned for emancipation long before the war, so while we had staff in the household, they were paid as well as any white man or woman would have been paid. My Daddy had a man helped him with his papers, name of Isaac - he taught him to read, then taught him the law - and Ma had a lady’s maid, Mariah, and when me and Cam came along, Mariah was our nurse. She was like a big sister or an aunt to us - I don’t think she can have been more than fifteen when we came along, and she was always there, as long as I can remember - she was staff, but she was family to me and Cam. She was there for us when my Daddy died, sat with us at the funeral and mourned with us.

We were twenty one when the war came, and Cam and me had our first real fight. He joined up pretty much straight away, soon as it looked like there might be war, and of course I couldn’t, and it meant we’d be apart for the first time in our lives. He said I could be a nurse, or knit socks or some such, but I was so mad with him. I said I’d cut my hair and wear his clothes - go and join up with him, but he just laughed at me. “You're too pretty to be a boy - and you won’t want to know what they do to pretty boys in the army,” he told me. I told him he was as pretty as me - ha! - he almost gave me a black eye me for that! But he wouldn’t be put off, and he came home one day in his uniform, looking as handsome and dapper a young buck as you ever saw. His unit were training upstate, but not too far from home, so he came back pretty regular.

Seemed like the army was making a man of him - every time he came home he seemed more serious, not so playful like he used to be. When he first came home he was full of talk about what he was learning, how hard it was, but how much he loved it - he used to show us his drills out in the yard, and I made him teach me everything he was learning. But as time went by, he got quieter and quieter - I figured at first he was scared about getting sent out to battle, because his training was almost done, but when I teased him about it, he just said I didn’t know what I was talking about, and that war wasn’t the only thing to be scared of. I tried to make him laugh, asked him how he was getting on, pretty boy like him - and Lord, but that did it. He was so angry, but then I saw he wasn’t angry with me, and it all came out.

He used to talk about his pals, the boys he’d signed up with, who he’d fight alongside when it came to it. He said he hadn’t been got at yet, but several of them had got themselves cornered alone with one of the officers, a real nasty piece of work. Said he spoke all fine and dandy, came across like a real gentleman, but under it all he was a bully, and the worst sort. Any of the boys he took a fancy to, if they didn’t give him what he wanted - you understand what I mean by that? - he’d make sure they were punished, humiliated, put back to basic training. He’d make them march for miles in the heat carrying the heaviest packs; put them on latrine duty; even have them flogged for insubordination, just because they wouldn’t submit to - well, I think you know what it was they wouldn’t do.

Now I got to tell you, we weren't brought up to mind that sort of thing in itself - my Daddy always said it took all sorts of folk to make the world go round, and what consenting adults did wasn’t nobody’s business but their own - but these boys weren’t consenting. This man, Captain Wood, he used his power and his rank to get what he wanted, and he’d break anyone as tried to stop him. One boy tried to stand up to him, reported him to their commanding officer, but Wood, he just turned it all around with his silver tongue, made out that the boy was mad because Wood had refused _his_ advances and was reporting him out of spite - and you know what they did? They locked that poor boy up, and he hanged himself for shame that folk believed he’d wanted it. He told the truth, he stood up to what was wrong - and they got him killed for it.

Cam and me, like I said, we was brought up pretty liberal, but we always knew wrong from right, and we’d both gotten beat up for standing up to bullies all through our childhood, but this was something different. I begged him not to do anything crazy, but he wouldn’t back down, not now he’d seen a boy killed over a lie, and he started organising. He got some of the boys to sign sworn statements, promised them he’d get Wood court martialled and discharged, and he was as good as his word. He wouldn’t let none of the boys Wood had preyed on take the heat for it, neither - he presented his dossier of evidence to the CO, and he stood and spoke against Wood in court. Well, they believed Cameron and his file of statements, all right, and they slung Wood out of the army so quick he didn’t know what hit him. They should have hanged him, for sure as eggs is eggs he had that boy’s blood on his hands.

Cameron came home that weekend all puffed up with a solemn sort of pride - and he’d earned it, too. We were so proud of him. He said he’d decided that once the war was over, he was going to read the law just like our Daddy, and he was going to look out for the little guy that had no-one else to speak out for him. Well, he never got a chance to do that - never even made it out of New York. It was me that found him, by the back gate in a pool of his own blood, a knife in his back. Didn’t take a genius to work out who killed him, but there was no proof, and no one knew where Wood had gone after he was kicked out - he seemed to have disappeared.

We buried Cameron next to our Daddy - my beautiful brother, dead at twenty one. Mariah sat with us again - and then she sat with me not two weeks later as we buried my Ma. Cam’s death broke her heart - well, I don’t rightly know if you can die from a broken heart, but you can die from laudanum if you take enough, and she did. For a while I felt like I might do the same, but I had Mariah to keep me going - well, we just about kept each other going - and I had a job to do. I swore I’d find Wood and make him pay for what he’d done to my family, but turned out I didn’t have to look for him: he found me first.

It wasn't enough for him to kill my brother. The way he saw it, Cameron ended his career. He didn’t think for a moment that he’d ended it himself, but some men are like that - they never want to take responsibility for their own actions. He was from a family of soldiers, real career army types, and he was supposed to be the latest in a long line of generals by the time he retired: I guess he thought the war would be the making of him, but he’d blown any chance of that. So he lost his commission, his career - and his family disowned him when they discovered what he’d done. His name and his likeness were all over the newspapers in New York, and he couldn’t get honest work anywhere, and all he could do was rage at Cameron for bringing him down. Well, Cameron was dead, so the next best thing, as he saw it, was to bring more misery on his family, small as it was by then.

Now bear in mind what I said: Mariah was a free woman - freeborn, too, and she had all the papers to prove it - ’cause remember, this was before abolition. When Wood found out my Ma and Pa were already dead, he only had one last knife to twist, and that was Mariah. It was just the two of us now, living alone in the family home, and still in deep mourning for Cameron and Ma. It must have been a month or so after Ma died that I went up to Boston for a few days to visit an old great aunt, leaving Mariah to look after the house. When I got back, the house was cold, there was no fire in the kitchen, the drapes hadn’t been drawn - there was no sign of Mariah. I went through the house, thinking she must have left me a note somewhere to say she’d been called away, but what I found instead was a small, thin man with a face like a grinning skull sitting in my Daddy’s chair in the study. I hadn’t seen him before, but I knew right away who he was. I didn’t bother greeting him, or showing him the fear I knew he wanted to see, just asked him where Mariah was.

“I sent her back where she belongs,” he said. Where she belonged was right there at home, and I told him so. Well, he used a lot of language I don’t care to repeat, but that evil son of a bitch had kidnapped her while I was away and had sent her South - to be sold into slavery. I found out later that he’d got her on a boat to Wilmington, Delaware, and after that - well, I’ll come to that.

I guess you won’t be surprised to hear that even then I wasn’t the faint-hearted milkmaid kind of a girl, though I think that’s what he was expecting. He couldn’t have chosen a dumber place in the whole house to pick a fight, for all my Daddy’s regimental souvenirs were on the wall there - his rifle, his pistols, his swords - and I knew how to use every last one of them. Before he knew which way was up, I had a blade to his throat and a knee in his groin, and I told him to give me one good reason not to slit his throat.

He kept his head, I’ll give him that - he said he was the only person who knew where Mariah was, and that he’d trade that knowledge for his life. He gave me the name of the ship she was on, and told me when it had sailed, and that was as much as he’d say. I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but it was as good as I was going to get, so I relieved him of his weapons, kept the knife to his throat and walked him to the door. I pushed him outside, I picked up my riding crop and I whipped his ass all the way to the end of the street.

“If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you, you hear? Now, run! Run for your life, you sorry son of a bitch!”

I locked the house up while I packed my things - mostly Cameron’s things, truth be told - and then I set off. I stopped by to see Isaac first, the man who’d worked with my father. He’d been a conductor on the underground railroad before he came to us, and there weren’t no-one in New York knew more about the way the trade worked in those days. He told me a lot of stuff about where Mariah might be taken on from Wilmington, and what kind of customer would be looking for an educated woman like Mariah.

Now look - I told you this was a long story, but I’m going to make as short as I can here. I followed her, my Mariah, for days and days. I followed her to Wilmington, and it didn’t take me too long to find out where the auction house was. I followed her trail halfway down the Eastern seaboard until I got to the Dawson plantation near Charlotte - that’s where she’d been sold on to. Dawson’s was mainly rice and grain, and I just hoped to hell that she’d got herself taken on in the house, not in the fields. Boy, was I saddle sore by the time I got there, and pretty near exhausted - weeks of sleeping in barns and any old place I could find to lay my head took it out of me, you know? But I had a job to do, and thinking about what poor Mariah might be going through kept me pushing on.

I bided a while in a little place just outside Charlotte, found me a boarding house where I could rest up and make myself respectable again. I’d been on the road something like six, seven weeks by then, and I needed to regroup, so to speak. I made myself useful in the boarding house, got in the landlady’s good graces by helping her get her paperwork in order, and my luck was in, ’cause she was a terrible gossip. Nothing she liked better than poking her nose in other folks’ business, and that was fine by me. I told her I was a governess looking for work, and she promised to keep an ear to the ground, see what she could find for me. I quizzed her about all the big houses where work might be found - named a few I'd seen just so as I didn’t seem too keen to find out about the Dawson place, then I asked about it, real casual.

“Miss Alexandra’s a bit old for a governess,” she told me, “but she could do with a companion, I guess. Her mamma died a while back, and she’s there all alone with her pa. He’s bought her a new lady’s maid, real smart one from up North they say, but a coloured girl’s no fit company for a lady - even one that’s got too big for her boots and learned to read.”

I didn’t know whether to kiss her for telling me where Mariah was, or slap her for talking about her that way. I didn’t do neither, of course - just asked if she thought they might take me on to keep the girl company.

“Mr Dawson might just do that - there’s some cousin of his been sniffing around the girl wanting to marry her, but I don’t doubt it’s the plantation he wants, not the girl. He’s got a place of his own, but it’s nowhere near the size of Dawson’s, and Miss Alexandra’s the only child. I’ll ask the Reverend Day to write you a letter of introduction, you can go and meet Mr Robert and his daughter.”

So that's what I did, and they took me on right away. He seemed a decent enough man, though I couldn’t get past his keeping slaves, and turned out his daughter was of the same mind as me. Mr Robert, he was kind enough to the men and women he saw, but his overseer was a real brute, and Mr Robert didn’t know half of what went on out in the fields and the bunk houses. I saw Mariah soon enough, and she was smart enough not to show she knew me, though I could see she was as happy as I was to be reunited. She was safe enough living in the house as she did, and she said Alexandra was kind to her, knew she didn’t ought to be there, and was trying to find a way to get her away and home to New York. The biggest problem was the overseer - he and his boys watched the place like hawks and if they found anyone trying to escape - well, you can imagine, I guess. After a while, none of them even tried to escape - they knew what would happen to them.

I figured I had to find a way of getting Mariah out of the grounds without raising suspicion, so I made a plan. I took Alexandra out on little trips here and there, into Charlotte, to concerts and the theatre and to the museums an so on - all good respectable, educational things. After the second or third visit, she told her pa that I was looking after her mind just fine, but that she needed Mariah with her to keep her looking neat and ladylike, and bless him, he didn’t know any different, so we got permission to go out together, the three of us. We made a habit of it so as no-one would think twice if we were away from the house for a while. We even built up to spending a night in town, then two - I wanted to make it so as no-one would worry if we were gone for a few nights.

All this time, I was getting to know Alexandra better, and we got on just fine. I hadn’t really had girl friends at home - I spent so much of my time with Cameron that I didn’t ever feel the need to look anywhere else for friendship, but I found a real companionship with her. We felt the same way about a lot of things, for all she was brought up to be a Southern lady, and - and well, turned out we felt the same way about each other, too.

I hope you ain’t easily shocked, but I felt something for her I’d never felt before, something more than just friendship. We’d got real close in the few weeks I’d been there, and when we went for our visits to Charlotte, we’d stay up half the night talking and laughing. We always had two rooms, and Mariah slept in Alexandra’s room, but after a couple of nights away, we just changed it over so as I stayed in the room with Alexandra and Mariah slept in my room. Alexandra was getting ready for bed, and - well, gosh almighty if she wasn’t the prettiest thing I’d ever seen - I’d never known a woman could look like that. She saw the way I was looking at her, and I swear, I thought I’d die from shame, thought she’d send me away, that I’d ruined everything between us, and Mariah’s hope of escape, but when I saw she was looking at me the same way…

I won’t embarrass you no more, but I think you understand me, what I’d learned about myself. All this time, we were still planning Mariah’s route home, and we had all these new feelings, and - oh, it was a crazy time. We’d always planned to go for a long visit somewhere - to let Mariah and me get a good start of a few days before they came looking for us, then Alexandra would go back and say we’d been kidnapped and taken West, put ’em off the scent, but now it was different - she wouldn’t let me go without she came with me. I told her it was safer to stick with the plan, that she should come up to New York later, as much as I hated to leave her, but she wouldn’t stay, said she needed to be with me, and that anyways, that cousin of hers was just waiting to get her alone and get his hands on the plantation. She didn’t care about the land, but she dreaded the thought of being with him, and I couldn’t bear to see her frightened, so I said, all right, we’ll all go together.

That was what did for us - a tall blonde woman, a handsome dark-haired girl and an educated black woman - I was so tall, it made us stand out in people’s minds, I guess, and once we’d been on the road a few days, they came out looking for us, and we were too easy to follow. I should have made her stay at home.

We were a week, maybe ten days out of Charlotte, and we thought we’d done it, thought we were safe. I’d found a cabin in the woods and we borrowed it for a night. Mariah was sleeping in the little parlour, and me and Alexandra were in the bedroom, doing what young lovers do in bedrooms, when I heard the door of the cabin thrown open, and the terrible sound of a gunshot. We didn’t have time to make ourselves decent before the bedroom door was kicked open, and he found us like that, no mistaking what we’d been about. I thought it was the overseer at first, just on account of the fury on his face, but it was Alexandra’s cousin, and he was mad like you’ve never seen a man mad. I couldn’t tell you half of what he said, even if I wanted to - he was so angry he hardly made sense, but it was all about what was his - _his_ bride, _his_ plantation, _his_ rights. Made me think of Captain Wood, and what he thought _he_ was entitled to - but I didn’t hardly have time to think.

He dragged me out of bed and he beat me like I was a dog. He used his fists, he used his boots, and when he got me on the ground and pulled out a knife, I though for sure he was going to cut my throat, but he said if I wanted to live like a man, he’d make sure I died looking like one. He grabbed me by my hair, and he slashed away at it until he’d cut it all short and my head fell back to the floor.

He said he’d be damned if was going to marry an unnatural woman, but he’d be damned if he’d give up the plantation either. He said he’d told Mr Robert when he set out that Alexandra had promised him her hand in marriage - which of course she hadn’t, she couldn’t stand him - and that for a gentleman like Robert Dawson, that meant they were as good as married already. And if Alexandra was to die before they could marry - why, that wouldn’t make no difference. There weren’t no other kin, and in the eyes of Mr Robert, he’d be the next best thing. I understood then, we both did, what he meant to do, and as he raised his pistol, I dragged myself up from the floor and threw myself across her body, trying to take it for her. I took it, all right - it went right through my shoulder and straight into her heart.

I must have passed out with the pain, or the shock, and the next thing I knew, he was shaking me, pulling my head up by what was left of my hair and pushing up my eyelid to see if I was alive. I just stayed as still as I could and let him think I was dead, and he must have believed it, for he dropped my head back onto Alexandra’s body, laughed out loud, and he left whistling _Dixie_. I listened as he left, heard the door bang shut, and I listened as I heard his horse ride off. I waited just a little longer to be sure he was really gone, then I got myself up and took stock. No wonder he thought I was dead - I was covered in blood, but the wound weren’t that bad - it had just gone through the soft part under my arm - a whole lot of blood, but not much damage, though it hurt like hell. Alexandra, though - she was dead, and I’d known it from the moment the bullet hit. I just sort of felt the life go out of her underneath me, and it felt like it was taking me with it.

Mariah was dead, too - the last of my family. He’d shot her as she slept, and I was glad she hadn’t known a thing about it. I bandaged myself up as best I could with one good arm, and then I sat and took stock. I knew I had to get away from there if I wanted to live - though I wasn’t sure I _did_ want to - and it was going to be hard. I tried to think about what I’d do if I were him, and I realised he’d need to prove that Alexandra was dead to get his inheritance. He’d most likely gone to call the law - ‘Something awful’s happened, I found three women dead in a cabin’ - and he’d only find two, and he’d hunt me down, and find me, and finish the job to stop me talking. So I had to make it look like there were three - or make it too hard to tell.

I gathered my things together, said a quick prayer for Mariah and Alexandra - the last prayer that ever passed my lips - and I set fire to the cabin. I cut the horses free, just kept the freshest one to take me on, and I waited long enough to make sure the fire took hold. I rode all through the night to put as much distance between me and that cabin as I could. I rode North for days and days, just out of homing instinct, I guess, but after a while I just thought to myself, well, you got nobody and nothing to go home to. I’d kept out of the way of folks up to then, but it was getting harder to stay out of sight, and I knew I must look pretty noticeable. I stole clothes from washing lines and laundry houses - men’s clothes, ’cause travelling alone as a young woman, I feared for more than my life, and as long as I kept my hair short and my face dirty, I looked enough like a boy. I took pants from one place, a jacket from another, a shirt or two from a third and so on, until I had something I could wear - I just needed boots that didn’t look like a lady’s.

I was somewhere up in Virginia by then, and for the first time I could feel that the war was nearby. I found my way to a hospital, and I stole a pair of boots from out the back of the scullery where they were all lined up for somebody to clean - and I got busted by a nurse. She gave me such a telling off! She dragged me into the building by my ear, saying whether I was Union or Confederate, I was a traitor stealing boots from a soldier, and all sorts like that - but before she could even finish, I fainted clean away. Next thing I knew, I was laid on a couch and she was washing my face, and trying to see why I had a blood stain on my shirt - and then my secret was out. The wound under my arm was infected and I was feverish - days of travel hadn’t let me heal, and I was half starved, and I was too weak to do anything but let her nurse me back to health. Her name was Clara, and she was a peach. I mean, I didn’t feel about her like I felt about Alexandra, not at all, and she was twenty years older than me, but she was such a good woman, so strong and honest and wanting to do her best for all her boys, whichever side they were from. She said to me, you’ll just be one more of my boys - she kept my secret for me, even gave me a better haircut, and I became Corporal Cameron Fitzgerald - she even found a uniform for me.

I healed up all right with some rest and some good food, and I started helping out in the hospital where I could. I learned some nursing - cleaning wounds, stitching them up and bandaging them, and they even had me helping out with some operations seeing as I had a stronger stomach than most of the men. When Nurse Clara got permission to take supplies to the front line, the hospital director chose me to go with her as her escort. Nurse Clara, she tried to put him off, tried to get him to pick someone else, but he said she wasn’t to play favourites, and there it was, I was going with her up to Cedar Mountain. We got there at midnight, and you should have seen them - it was like they'd seen an angel descending - and that’s what they called her: the Angel of the Battlefields.

I been talking too long. There’s a whole lot more, but let's just say that by the end of the war, Cameron Fitzgerald was a Captain in the Ambulance Corps, and I knew about as much doctoring as anyone could without going to school, and after the war was over, I went back to New York to do just that, but they wouldn’t have me for a medical student, not as Berenice Wolfe with her short hair and long pants, and Cameron Fitzgerald didn’t want to study anywhere that wouldn’t take Bernie Wolfe, so I gave up on that dream, stubborn fool that I was.

After four years living mostly as a man, going back to being a New York lady didn’t seem that appealing, so I sold up everything that was left there. I said my goodbyes at the graveyard and ordered a stone for Mariah, and I followed my Daddy’s footsteps back to the goldfields, up in Oregon. I didn’t stick it out for long - got more work fixing folk up than mining - just like my father before me. Then I just got to wandering - bit of doctoring here, bit of teaching there, and lately I been keeping folks the right side of the law. Ain’t never settled down before - but I’m getting old for all this wandering about, and maybe Holby City’s the place to do it.

Told you it was a long story. I guess it’s about more than wearing pants, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernie’s story: a summary
> 
> Bernie’s twin brother Cameron enlists in the US Army at the beginning of the Civil War. He exposes an officer, Captain Wood, as a sexual predator, and as a result, Wood is thrown out of the Army. He murders Cameron in revenge, and following their mother’s probable suicide, he also abducts their maid, Mariah, who is practically family, and sells her into slavery.
> 
> Bernie follows Mariah down to North Carolina and finds her working as lady’s maid to Alexandra Dawson. Bernie and Alexandra plan to escape with Mariah and travel back North, but Alexandra’s cousin, who had planned to marry her, follows them and discovers that they are lovers. He shoots all three women, and Bernie alone survives. She fakes her death and ends up joining the ambulance corp - as Cameron Fitzgerald.
> 
> After the war, there is nothing to keep her in New York, and she travels the country turning her hand to everything and anything: prospecting for gold; providing medical care, and most recently law enforcement.


	7. A Knife To A Gunfight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena responds to Bernie’s revelations in the best way she knows how.
> 
> The next morning, Guy Self is back in town, looking for trouble - and he finds it, in the shape of Sheriff Bernie Wolfe.

Throughout the telling of her tale, Bernie had gazed unseeingly out of the window at the sunset, then, when the sun went down, she had turned her eyes to the empty fireplace, to the lantern standing on the dresser, to the bottom of her glass. It had been easier for her to talk to yards of empty air and to inanimate objects than for her to feel there was anyone listening to her terrible story, even Serena. The whiskey bottle was a little emptier now than it had been a few hours before, but as she had become drawn into the telling of her own tale, Bernie had almost gone into a trance, and had just talked and talked, the history spilling from her lips as though it belonged to someone else.

Serena had listened silently as she heard how every person Bernie had loved had been torn from her, and however calmly and dispassionately Bernie spoke, she couldn't help the tears from gathering in her eyes. She had blinked them back, for she knew that Bernie had neither need nor want of her pity or pain, and she had simply listened without comment or interjection, letting the story settle around them like a dark, heavy cloak.

They simply sat for a while when Bernie finished speaking, and Serena waited for the other woman to come back to herself a little before she broke the silence.

“Oh, Bernie. Darling, the things you’ve seen.”

Bernie finally raised her head to meet Serena’s eyes, and saw there not the horror and pity that she had dreaded, but a simple compassionate understanding that was a start to healing in itself. And now Serena’s hand was in her own, pulling her not to the staircase, but to her feet and into her own bedroom. She sat her on the edge of her bed and knelt to pull off her boots one by one, then started to unbutton her shirt. As she turned to the night stand and dampened a cloth in the basin, Bernie asked dumbly, “Serena? What are you doing?” Serena smiled gently at her over her shoulder, wrung the cloth out and came back to her, pushing the shirt off her shoulders.

“I’m looking after you, Bernie. That’s all. Hold your arms up for me, honey,” and she pulled her undershirt off. Bernie wore neither corset nor binding, and Serena wiped gently under her arms, across her shoulders, beneath her breasts, her touch firm but gentle. “Now the pants, darling,” she murmured, and Bernie obeyed as meekly as a child. Serena rinsed the cloth and wrung it out again, calmly drawing it down Bernie’s long legs, taking time to wash each foot, and dried them carefully with a towel. She rinsed the cloth one last time and gave it to Bernie, saying “You wash between your legs yourself while I find you a nightshirt.”

When she turned back from the closet, fresh linen in hand, Bernie was waiting for her, arms lifted slightly to allow her to drape the nightshirt over her head, and she offered no resistance as Serena pulled back the covers and pushed lightly against her chest to lay her down in the soft bed. She pulled the sheet and blanket up, blew out the lamp on the dresser and once she had changed her own attire, she climbed into bed next to her.

“Would you let me hold you, Bernie?” Bernie turned wordlessly into the soft circle of her arms, and Serena felt the other woman's body relaxing into the embrace. She wondered how long it had been since she had allowed anyone to look after her, and suspected she knew the answer. She held her close as she felt Bernie’s breath deepen and slow, until she knew she was asleep. She was glad. She had worried that she might have been over-tired and agitated from re-living those terrible years, but she was at peace, at least for now. Serena lay awake for a good long while, thinking over what she had heard, marvelling at Bernie’s refusal to stay embittered. Such a life would turn many into monsters, and she gave thanks to whoever or whatever might be listening for Bernie’s strength and goodness. Eventually, she too drifted off into a sleep that was visited by half-formed visions and memories that almost felt like her own.

***

Serena wasn’t sure if it was the bright sun through the thin curtains that woke her, or the smell of freshly brewed coffee. When she opened her eyes, there was Bernie, her hair shining in the early morning sun, a pot of coffee in her hand, and she was pouring a cup for each of them. As she leaned down to put the cup on the little table by the side of the bed, her hair fell loose, and Serena caught a lock of it between her fingers.

“I’m glad you let it grow again. It’s beautiful.”

Bernie smiled shyly. “I just never get round to cutting it now, I guess - I don’t much care if it’s long or short.”

“Then leave it long for me - I like it.”

“All right.” She looked at Serena, a little smile still playing on her lips, then the her face fell. “I’m sorry to have burdened you with my troubles last night, Serena.”

Serena patted the bed until Bernie sat next to her, her hip against Serena’s leg, and Serena took her hand as she had done the night before.

“Nonsense - to think of you keeping all of that bottled up all these years! Why, a good talking through’s exactly what the doctor ordered - and she’s ordering a spell of rest now. The brain’s as like as any organ to get exhausted when it’s been through a trial like you gave yours last night - you need a holiday.”

“The law don’t take a holiday, Serena, not unless crime does, and I don’t see that happening any time soon. Guess I’ll rest when I'm dead.”

“Well, it’s either a rest or a good dose of Gaskell’s Genuine Guaranteed Patented Panacea for All That Ails You,” Serena twinkled, and for the first time since they had retired to Serena’s rooms last night, Bernie laughed - a proper guffaw that came from her belly.

“If only some old busybody hadn’t chased the good Professor out of town!” she complained. “Come on, now, let’s get this day started. I got me some reprobates to let out over the road, and I dare swear you got things to do.” She knocked back her coffee and reached for the door, but stopped for a moment, then turned to look at Serena, and she spoke quietly in her warm, deep voice, her eyes soft. “I’m very much obliged to you, Serena.” She was gone before Serena could say a word.

***

Bernie had been right about crime’s admirable work ethic, for that morning, Guy Self came blustering into town, mad at having missed the spectacle of the medicine show and the eviction of the snake oil merchants, and he was determined to make his own fun.

He had started with a showy swagger along Main Street, daring anyone to make eye contact with him. Used to his moods and his bullying ways, no-one was fool enough to catch his eye, but spoiling for a fight, he had started kicking over milk pails, barging into people with his broad shoulders, and generally terrorising the good folk of Holby City.

Bernie had been keeping a weather eye on things from her office in the gaol, and was determined to give him enough rope to hang himself. For all that the whole town as good as knew that he had killed Dominic Copeland, there was still no evidence to pin him down, and Bernie had been waiting for him to make a mistake. She had met men like Self before, and knew it was only a matter of time before he started bragging about it: they couldn’t seem to help themselves. It was only when he took his pistol out of its holster and strode into McKinnie’s that she decided enough was enough, and she followed him in silently, keeping out of his line of sight.

He was already at the bar, leaning over and leering at a stony faced Donna Jackson.

“I _said_ , I’ll have a whiskey. You deaf, girl?”

Donna was no pushover, Bernie noted with approval.

“No sir, Mr Self, I ain’t deaf, but you know Miss McKinnie won’t have you drinking in here no more.”

“God dammit, will you give me a drink or not?”

“No sir, I will not. You know I won’t, and I’ll thank you to get out of this bar before Miss McKinnie finds you here.”

“I ain’t scared of her - I ain’t scared of anyone in this town. Look at the kind of hero you fools look up to - some dead pansy.” He nodded towards the daguerreotype of Mr Copeland which still hung above the bar, though the mourning cloths were gone.

Donna’s face darkened. “Don’t you talk about him like that!” she spat, but Self just laughed, and raised his pistol, aiming it at the frame and at the cheery face of the young man in the picture. Beneath the bar, Donna’s hand reached for one of the sleek pistols the anonymous donor had given to Serena, but before either Donna or Self had a chance to fire, Guy found his hand twisted back by a firm grip until he dropped his weapon, and pulling his wrist upwards behind his back, Bernie forced him to his knees. She hoisted him onto a waiting chair and stood over him, a hand resting loosely on her own Colt.

“The name’s Wolfe - Sheriff Bernie Wolfe, and I’m here to stop you making a real bad mistake, Mr Self.”

Taken aback by the unexpected move, and shocked to find that it was a woman who had put an end to his fun, his face registered an ugly combination of fury, fear and scorn.

“Putting a hole in a picture of a pretty boy? Ain’t no crime. This town’s full of milksops like him. Why, call yourself the law around here? I heard you let a bunch of quacks just walk out of town - you should have lynched those charlatans, strung ’em up and let ’em rot. I’d have shown them who runs this town, and it ain’t no dame in petticoats!”

“Well, Mr Self, you might wear petticoats under _your_ chaps, but I sure as hell don’t wear ’em under mine.”

It took him a moment, but once he understood her insult, his face contorted with rage and he started from his seat - only to sink back pale faced, as he heard the rush of air, and felt the vibrations of the knife that was suddenly juddering in the solid wooden seat of his chair between his wide spread legs, just an inch from the seam of his pants.

He was sweating and trembling at the narrowness of his escape, but he aimed for nonchalance. “You missed.”

“I can’t aim for what ain’t there, now, can I?”

“Little girl like you couldn’t hit the side of barn door if you was two feet away from it.” Nevertheless, he was pressed as far back into the chair as he could get, eyes darting nervously to the wicked blade that had so nearly fixed him to the seat.

Bernie was still as calm and relaxed as ever, and paid little heed to his bluster. “Mr Self, if I'd wanted to hit you, you’d be singing like a choirboy now, but you want to make a song and dance about it? All right - somebody give me a mark and we’ll see who has the better aim.”

She looked up to find a bar full of averted eyes: nobody wanted to be complicit in the humiliation of Guy Self, but then Serena herself stepped out from a back room and said, “Well, if anyone’s going to make a mark on my bar for these two fools to throw things at, it had better be me. Donna, give me the chalk, would you?” and she marked a bold cross on the face of the bar. She tossed the chalk to Bernie, who drew a line on the floor and glanced in query at Self, who shrugged dismissively.

“Have it your own way,” she said pleasantly. She scuffed the line out, took three long paces back and re-drew the line. “Age before beauty,” she offered courteously, pulling the knife from the chair and handing it to him, making sure he saw the loose grip she still had on her gun.

He hefted the weight of it in his hand for a moment and made a couple of tentative movements testing it, and then his arm straightened as the knife left his hand, landing solidly a hair’s breadth from the centre of the cross. Bernie looked closely at it and nodded, seemingly impressed.

“Nicely done, sir, very nicely done indeed. As near as makes no difference, I’d say.” His face was smug, and he puffed his chest out like a bantam cock. “Now, let’s see if I can get anywhere near that.”

Bernie turned away from the bar for a moment and gave a slow shake of her head, as if in defeat, but Serena had seen the little smile that had flickered across her face as she turned. As quick as a snake making a kill, she spun round, her arm arcing out in one fluid motion, and Serena was reminded of a figure throwing a discus she had once see on a Grecian urn in a museum. The clang and scrape of metal upon metal rang though the air, and Bernie’s knife nestled alongside the blade of the first one, the point embedded firmly in the very eye of the cross. The hasp of the knife Guy had thrown lay in splinters on the floor.

Donna leaned forward over the bar, mouth agape. “She done split his knife - jes’ like Robin Hood splitting that old arrow!”

Bernie strolled to the bar and retried her knives. “Mr Fletcher, could I prevail upon you for a new handle to this blade, if you please? And Mr Self - I’m going to invite you to get out of town, and stay out, until you learn yourself some better manners. I hear your Miss Naylor went to a fancy finishing school - she might be able to give you some assistance. But I swear, if I see you misbehaving again within Holby City limits, you’ll be cooling your heels at my pleasure - or at Judge Hanssen’s.”

His chin jutted forward pugnaciously. “I ain’t afraid of no sheriff. You should see what I done to the last few suckers who tried to bring down the law on my head!”

Bernie regarded him gravely, her head on one side as though inspecting horseflesh. “Well, Mr Self, sure looks like _something's_ come down on your head. Oh - begging your pardon, sir, I thought that was a terrible scar - but I see now that’s just the way your face is.”

Apoplectic with rage at her refusal to rise to his bait, he swung for her, but she caught his arm and used his own momentum to drive him out through the saloon doors and straight into the water trough. Dragging him out again, she delivered a well aimed kick to the seat of his pants “Now, go on, git!”

Clutching his rear end and cursing a blue streak, he got.


	8. Last Train To Wyvern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Holby City being a far more civilised and law abiding town than when Bernie arrived, she is still working hard, and Serena decides that if the Sheriff won’t take her advice to rest, she will have to take matters into her own hands. She engineers a trip to the nearby metropolis of Wyvern City and insists that the Sheriff accompany her as her own personal bodyguard.

Following Bernie’s display of knife throwing, and her casual humiliation of Guy Self, things fell pretty quiet for a while in Holby City. The gaol was never quite empty, but Bernie had found time to clean out the vacant cells properly between guests, which had not happened for a while. Serena watched from across the street as Bernie swept and scrubbed and whitewashed the gaolhouse,her coat slung over the hitching post, and her shirtsleeves rolled up. She shook her head. Even when there was practically nothing to do, Bernie couldn’t help but make work for herself, and she showed no sign of allowing herself the rest that Serena had prescribed.

Around lunchtime, Serena walked across from the hotel, a pail in one had and a bottle of cold beer in the other.

“I brought you a bite of lunch, and something to wet your whistle. Mind if I keep you company?” And she spread a cloth out on a stack of boxes that Bernie had brought outside while she mopped the office, and pulled two chairs up to it.

Bernie smiled at her, pausing to drag her bare forearm across her dusty brow. “We having a picnic?” she teased.

“We can call it a picnic if you like.” She laid out bread and cheese and a hunk of cold beef, and poured herself a glass of beer. “You don't mind drinking from the bottle, do you honey?” She had found herself peppering her conversation with these little terms of endearment ever since the night that Bernie had told her story, and the habit had stuck. The other woman didn’t seem to mind - indeed, every now and then Serena saw a shy little smile on her face that made her do it all the more. It felt good to show some care and affection to this tough woman who had been through such lonely times.

Bernie pulled a watch from the pocket of her waistcoat and admitted that it was about time she took a break. Her years of hardship had left her able to forego rest and nourishment, but now that she didn’t need to, she heartily enjoyed a good meal whenever she got the chance.

“What’s the occasion, Serena? Is it your birthday or something? I wish you’d told me.”

“There doesn’t need to be an occasion to share a meal with a friend. Come on, sit down and tuck in, Sheriff. This beer won’t stay cold for long out here.”

It was indeed a warm day, and the beads of sweat that trickled slowly down Bernie’s neck attested to the fact. Serena watched fascinated as she raised the cool bottle to her lips and took a long draft, her head tipped back exposing the smooth peristalsis of her throat as she swallowed. Serena was glad of her own drink, and she turned away slightly as she sipped it more daintily than her friend. When she turned back, her colour was a little high. Gosh, but it was a warm day, she thought.

“Actually Bernie, there was something I wanted to ask you about, and I thought I’d mention it now so you can have a think about it before you say yes or no.”

Her interest piqued, Bernie wiped her mouth. “Go on?”

“Oh, you’re a woman of few words, though, ain’t you? The strong and silent type, I know. Well, I was thinking it was almost a shame the professor and Cousin Imelda were faking it, for I’m getting mighty low on medical supplies just now. I’ve telegraphed an order though to my supplier, and there’s a shipment arriving by railroad in Wyvern City on Saturday next. It’s kind of a high value delivery, so I was planning to go and collect it myself, but you know there’s been a few hold ups on the Wyvern Stage lately, and I was wondering if I could call in a favour and ask you to escort me?” She preempted Bernie’s objection, “You know, I would ask Mr Di Lucca or Mr Fletcher, but I need someone to provide medical care while I’m gone, and - well, it don’t seem fitting that I should go away for a night with a bachelor gentleman, do it? Oh, say you’ll come and watch over me? There’s no-one else I’d trust more to keep me safe.”

It would have taken a stronger woman than Bernie Wolfe to withstand the pleading look on Serena’s face, and somewhat to her bemusement, Bernie found herself agreeing to ride shotgun on the stage, and to accompany Serena overnight to Wyvern City. They would travel on the Friday and return the following day with several packages of morphine, opium and cocaine - just the basic ingredients for some of Serena’s medicated remedies - and some of the new drugs Serena had been reading about in her medical journals that would put a man to sleep while she operated on him.

***

Friday came around, and Bernie helped Serena carry her luggage down to the front of the hotel.

“Good Lord, Serena, I thought we was only going up to Wyvern for a night? Seems like you got enough provisions here for a whole regiment to bunk up for a month!”

Serena shook her head at her pityingly. “Bernie, darling, I know it’s been a mighty long time since you worried about the trappings of a lady, but trust me, I’m only taking half what I’d take if I was going for pleasure, not business. Though I dare say we can fit in a little bit of pleasure, too, hmm?”

Bernie was glad they were one behind the other on the staircase so that Serena didn’t see the expression on her face at this suggestion, though she turned as she heard Bernie stumble awkwardly on the stair.

“Mind your step there, Sheriff Wolfe - I need my bodyguard in one piece!”

For most of the journey they were the only passengers. Bernie had intended to ride shotgun, but when it came to it, Serena insisted she sit inside the coach with her. Bernie, knowing the driver to be a sensible sort of a fellow, had a word with him and made sure that he would bang on roof at the first sign of trouble (“or even before,” she impressed upon him) relented, and they sat across from each other leaning forward to talk. It was different from their nightly conversations, and there was a sense of almost childlike excitement between them.

“It’s a long time since I’ve been up to Wyvern,” Serena confided. “Last time I went, Sheriff Levy came along for the ride, but when we got back, Guy Self had been making a nuisance of himself over at Kellersville, and after that, he didn’t like to leave Miss Harrison alone for too long. Then of course they left town altogether, and I just haven’t had a chance to get away. I shouldn’t have let stocks run this low - I’ll be glad to know I can look after folks the way I like to.”

“You do a mighty fine job of looking after this town, Serena.” Bernie smiled warmly, a hand reaching out to touch Serena’s knee for a moment. “A town without a doctor’s a town without a heart - and Holby City’s got the biggest heart in the West, I’d say.” She coloured up - she didn’t know what had come over her, and she drew her hand back, wishing she smoked a pipe just so as she had something to fiddle with - what _did_ ordinary folk do with their hands? But Serena pulled her hand back and squeezed it tightly.

“We got the strongest conscience in the West too, since you came to town. I bless the day you turned up in my hotel, Bernie Wolfe, I do. I can’t pretend I don’t like seeing Mr Self taken down a peg or two, but it ain’t just that. You’re helping this place take a real pride in itself - and they way you’ve gone after drunkards and wife-beaters just as much as cattle thieves and bandits - well, I guess Holby’s starting to think of itself as a much more civilised place since you been around. Makes my job easier, if I'm not always patching up women who’ve walked into doors or fallen down stairs - again. Half of them don’t even have stairs, so I don’t know who they think they’re fooling.”

She loosened her grip on Bernie’s hand, but their fingers remained intertwined, hands held loosely between them as the stage coach swayed and rolled on its way.

“You’re looking a little peaky - I guess riding backwards don’t suit you so well. Come and sit here by me,” and she patted the seat next to her invitingly. They sat side by side in companionable silence, the sway of the coach nudging them closer each time they rounded a corner or swerved to avoid a rut, and eventually the constant motion took its effect on Serena. Her head drooped and jerked a couple of times before she finally dozed off, her head dropping nearer and nearer Bernie’s shoulder until with a little sigh, she slumped against her, breathing deeply and heavily. Bernie was rigid with anxiety for a few minutes, but relaxed into the comfortable feeling of the other woman’s weight against her, and she turned her head a little to watch her while she slept, appreciating the way her features softened in slumber, noticing the little puff of air that lifted her hair from time to time. A sudden lurch of the coach threw Serena closer still, and Bernie automatically put an arm around her shoulders - just to make sure she came to no harm, she told herself.

As they slowed and came to a stop at the next staging post, Serena awoke, a contented smile on her face. “Who would’ve thought someone so strong and lean would make such a comfortable pillow?” she wondered as she stretched. Several other passengers embarked for the journey to Wyvern, and the spell they had seemed under was broken, but they sat side by side, pressed together by necessity, and Bernie was painfully aware of the heat of Serena’s thigh against her own. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when they finally pulled into Wyvern City, and she jumped down to hold the door open for Serena.

Serena had reserved a room at the best hotel in town “My treat,” she insisted - and although the concierge looked slightly askance at Bernie’s unconventional attire, they checked in and had their bags taken up to their room (“Poor lad - looks like young Mr Valentine,” Serena laughed as the bellboy struggled with her bags and hatbox). They headed straight to the dining room where they spent a pleasant evening, relishing the novelty of somebody else preparing and serving their food. They shared a bottle of wine, which Serena declared to be the genuine article. Her eyes sparkled in the light of the single candle on their table, and Bernie found she was appreciating the sight of Serena’s enjoyment at least as much as she appreciated the wine and food.

They climbed the stairs together, full of good food, good wine and good cheer, and Serena sighed happily as she unlocked the door to their room and pushed it open.

“Well, doesn’t that look like a little piece of heaven?” she exclaimed as she sank back onto the clean white sheets of the comfortable bed. The one, large, double bed, Bernie noted with no little alarm.

“Uh, mm-hmm, it’s a real nice room all right. Guess I’ll lay my head down on the couch here - do you suppose there’s such a thing as a spare blanket in here?” Bernie’s voice was gruff and gentlemanly, but Serena was having none of it, and she sprang up from the bed.

“Why, this old thing? It's as hard as a rock - feel that! Stuffed so full of horsehair there ain’t even room for springs. You’ll wake up with a broken back - and your feet won’t even fit on there, string bean like you.”

Bernie prodded the velvet couch and tried not to wince. “I’ve slept on worse,” she sniffed dismissively.

“Then it’s high time you got used to sleeping on better. I booked one room for the sake of economy, but I wanted something nice and comfortable for us both - now, don’t you be offending me by refusing my hospitality. Come on, snuggle in with me. It’s not as though we haven’t done it before.” Serena’s tone left no room for argument, and Bernie sheepishly put down the pillow she had picked up.

Bernie had been too tired and wrung out to deny the closeness Serena had offered the night she had told the story of her past, but tonight she was more careful, more reserved. She resolutely turned her back as they both changed, Serena uncomfortably aware of the strain in the atmosphere. Sensing Bernie’s discomfort, she made sure to change for bed as rapidly as she could, and she slipped under the covers, drawing the sheet up to her shoulders. Bernie stood across the room, already in her long nightshirt, facing away from the bed, and Serena thought she was trembling. Her face fell, but she shuffled closer to the edge of the bed and pressed on in as cheery a voice as she could summon.

“I’m decent! Come on and hop in - it’s as comfy as anything, and plenty of room, too - look, you won’t even know there’s someone else in here with you.”

Bernie turned round wide-eyed, tension evident in her whole body, and she got in to bed awkwardly, practically clinging to her edge of the mattress.

Serena risked a tentative hand to her shoulder, and murmured sleepily, “It’s just me, Bernie darling.”

Bernie blew the oil lamp out, and rolling a little closer - just a little - whispered, “I know.”

***

Once again, when Serena woke in the morning, Bernie had already risen. The other side of the bed was cold, there was a neatly folded nightshirt on the pillow, and Bernie’s boots were gone from the end of the bed. She raised herself up, bleary-eyed and yawning, and saw that Bernie had left a note on top of the nightshirt indicating that she had already gone down to breakfast.

She rubbed the sleep away from her eyes and collapsed back into her pillows, her mind working overtime. They had had such a good evening the night before, but Bernie had frozen up the moment she saw their accommodation, and just like last time, she had disappeared before Serena had woken. She sighed, rolling over, and pulled the nightshirt to her, the note fluttering to the floor. She ran the plain linen between her fingers, and unable to resist any longer, she drew the shirt to her face and breathed in the scent of the woman who had lain alongside her in the night. It was such a comforting, reassuring scent, and she didn’t care to examine too closely why that should be. Bernie had become so dear to her, and she had longed to give her this respite from her daily cares, but she wondered now whether it might have been a mistake. The last thing she wanted to do was cause any difficulties in their friendship, and she cursed herself for making her friend uncomfortable.

Steeling herself with a fresh resolve to show Bernie a good time without letting on that this was in fact the primary object of their expedition, she got herself out of bed and dressed as quickly as she could, though it took her a little longer than her usual ablutions. She had gone to rather more trouble with her wardrobe than she normally did back in Holby, and had even reconciled herself to wearing a corset - though it was the least restrictive example she had been able to find in the mail order catalogues. She had to admit it was pretty, though, and it did favourable things to her already voluptuous figure. The dress wasn’t new, but it was one that only came out for special occasions, and Lord knew there hadn’t been many of those in Holby City lately. It was in a deep wine red organza that fell to the floor in graceful swathes. Velvet and lace trim in black set it off beautifully, and a little bolero jacket finished off the outfit. She pinned a jet brooch to the ruffled collar at her throat, and went down to the dining room for breakfast.

She was relieved to find Bernie waiting for her at a small table by the window, a pot of coffee on the starched white cloth, and a newspaper in her hand. She put it down when she saw Serena, and smiled at her.

“Good morning. You look refreshed for your lie in - and is that a new dress? It suits you very well.” Bernie was charm personified this morning, and Serena breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever had clouded her mood last night seemed to have dispersed in the morning sunlight, and she stood to pull a chair out for Serena.

“Morning! Not new, but I guess you won’t have seen it before. Did you sleep well yourself?”

Bernie inclined her head and grimaced a little. “I slept some. Reckon I’m not used to sleeping with someone else in the room these days - it’s a long while now since I last shared barracks.” 

Serena was contrite. “I’m sorry, honey, I should have asked if you minded.”

“I didn’t mind - I just worried a bit about what I might say or do in my sleep. I get bad dreams from time to time, and sometimes I wake up not knowing how I got somewhere. I just didn’t want to frighten or hurt you.” She looked up anxiously at Serena.

“I don’t think you could - I believe that even in your sleep you’d be my protector. Now, come on, let’s order breakfast - if it’s half as good as supper was I’ll be a happy woman.”

As they tucked into their breakfast, Serena nodded at the newspaper lying on the table.

“What’s going on in this wicked old world of ours this morning, then?”

Bernie finished a mouthful of bacon and said thoughtfully, “Plenty to keep me occupied, I reckon. Sounds like they got some lawless gunmen on the loose around these parts, and they’re on the move. They been hitting towns all over here, and looks to me like they’re drifting our way - look.” She pushed the newspaper over so Serena could see the little map that showed where the bandits had struck and sure enough, they looked to be encroaching on the area just north of Holby. “Reckon I’d better ride up top on the way home today - we was lucky yesterday, but you were right to ask for protection.”

Serena remembered something at this. “Oh - speaking of protection, I believe I owe you some thanks, don’t I?”

“How’s that, now?” Bernie’s look of puzzlement was genuine. “You don’t need to thank me for coming out to Wyvern City - I’m glad of the change of scene, to be honest with you.”

Serena shook her head. “I didn’t mean that, though of course I'm grateful. No - I meant - well. I realised something. Your father’s name was Gerald, wasn’t it? Gerald Wolfe? I thought so. What was his middle name - Neville? Niall? ’Cause I worked it out. GNW - they were your father’s guns, weren’t they?”

“Guns? What guns?”

Serena wagged a finger at her. “Oh, you can’t play the innocent with me, Sheriff. I’m on to you - it was you left the pistols, and you that picked poor Mr Copeland up off the road and brought him to us. Come on, now- take credit where it’s due!”

“Serena McKinnie, what in the world are you talking about?”

Serena was getting tetchy now. “The morning we found Dominic Copeland by the back door, we found a pair of Navy revolvers - whoever brung him to us left them as well - a pair of fine pistols in a fancy wooden box with your father’s initials on it - and you left a note to say they was to protect ourselves against Mr Self.”

“A note? Show me when we get back to Holby if you still got it. But it wasn’t me, and they ain’t my Daddy’s guns. I can see why you thought it, but it just ain’t so. Anyways, his middle name wasn't Niall or Norbert or whatever - didn’t I tell you, it was Fitzgerald? Gerald Fitzgerald Wolfe - that’s where I got my name from when I was living my other life. I reckon whoever brought Mr Copeland home had something to hide - or maybe just didn’t want Mr Self to know they’d sided against him.”

Serena felt positively deflated. She had been so certain that she had solved the mystery - and besides, she had liked the idea that Bernie had been looking out for her even before they had met. And it had been so soon afterwards that she had arrived in Holby in such memorable way.

“Well, if it wasn’t you, who was it? I can’t think of anyone else in town or roundabouts that has the name to go with that monogram.”

“Tell you what, show me the guns, and the box, and the note when we get home tonight and we’ll see if two heads ain’t better than one. What time’s your parcel arriving again?”

Serena suddenly found the newspaper absolutely fascinating, and she was busy tracing the little map with her finger as she replied somewhat absently, “It’ll be on the last train to Wyvern this evening - gets in at half past five. Should be able to get the six o’clock stage, all things being equal.”

“All right - so we got a bit of time to kill. You finished with that? Would you care to take a walk? - seems a shame not to see the sights while we’re here.”

As suddenly as she had found the newspaper so thrilling, Serena found she had lost interest entirely, and she folded it up smartly and got to her feet.

“Well then, Bernie - what are we awaiting for! Come on, let’s go and explore!” She beamed expectantly at Bernie, and her jaw dropped a little as the other woman stood, for she had been so rapt in conversation that she had failed to notice that she was not the only one to have made an effort this morning.

“Well, don’t you look dashing,” she breathed. For indeed she did. Bernie always looked smart enough in her work clothes - indeed, Serena had often wondered how she managed to keep her white shirt so clean and her waistcoat so well pressed - but they were by no means new, and they were beginning to show signs of wear and tear. But these -

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been out already and bought yourself new duds - and you didn’t wake me up?”

Bernie was bashful. “Well, it was just that you brought so many bags and whatnot with you, I figured you were going to look finer than fine - which you do, by the way - and I didn’t want to let you down, looking all shabby in those old things of mine. Is it all right?” She gestured down at her new get-up self consciously.

“Phew! Honey, it’s more than all right - you look so handsome! Is that buckskin? It’s so soft! - and the colour’s just lovely on you - would you call that fawn, do you suppose?”

Bernie mumbled, “They called it _nude_ in the store, but I don’t know about that… Oh, and they sold me this fancy neck thing, but I don’t know - d’you think it’s too much?” The fancy neck thing was a beautiful silk cravat in a deep shade of red that by sheer coincidence toned beautifully with Serena's dress.

“It ain’t too much - but maybe not in the day time. Here, let me just…” Serena carefully untied the cravat and drew it from around Bernie’s neck, contemplated the result, then undid the top two buttons of Bernie’s sHirt, exposing a hint of her lovely throat. She stepped back and surveyed her work, and gave a satisfied nod.

“I declare, I should be very proud to be seen on your arm, Sheriff Wolfe. Shall we?” Bernie crooked her elbow for Serena to take, and picking up her new hat, they strolled though to the lobby.

As Bernie held the door open for Serena, the concierge called out, “Oh, Miss McKinnie? A telegram has just arrived for you!”

“Why, who could be wanting to get a-hold of me here?” she said, her eyes wide. Unfolding the slip of paper, she scanned the contents and tutted in annoyance. She glanced up at Bernie, a frown on her face. 

“Well, ain't that just too provoking - it’s from my medical supplies agent, saying they weren’t able to load my parcel on the train this morning, but they’ll send it on tomorrow’s train. Oh, what a nuisance! Looks like we’ll have to stay over another night, I guess - I hope you don’t mind _too_ much, Bernie?”

“Can’t be helped, I s’pose. We’d better find some place to stay - fancy place like this is sure to be all booked up already. I’ll asked the feller at the desk where he might recommend that ain’t too dear.”

But when they sent to inquire, it turned out that luck was on their side. Not only was there a room available, but it happened to be the very room they had slept in last night, so they would not even need to transfer their belongings to another room.

“That’s a piece of luck, ain’t it, Serena?” Bernie tipped the concierge generously, missing the wink and the silently mouthed _thank you_ that Serena made behind her back. As discrete as a concierge must always be, he gave just the hint of a shadow of a smile. He had seen far odder things in his time behind this desk.

They spent the day taking in everything the city had to offer. They strolled along Main Street marvelling at the gaudy displays in the store windows, and Bernie showed Serena the tailors where she had bought her new clothes that morning. They took a light lunch at a tea room down by the river, watching the cargo boats pass through the city at a stately pace, and Serena managed to sweet talk her way into procuring two tickets to a matinée recital at the concert hall.

They wandered the streets of the growing city, and Bernie mentioned that she had read in the newspaper that morning that this year the population was expected to pass the fifteen thousand mark.“There was only something above five thousand this time last year - soon it will be the New York of the West, they say.” And indeed, there was evidence of development and construction at every turn. In the centre of the city, where the only way was up, some buildings had risen to the giddy heights of six, even seven storeys.

By the early evening, Serena’s feet were beginning to ache in her smart little boots, so much stiffer and tighter than the comfortable old things she wore everyday at home. Bernie offered her a solicitous arm and suggested they make their way back to the hotel for the evening, but Serena waved the suggestion away.

“Pshaw - I’ll be fine, honey - I just need to take the weight off my feet for a while. How about we find someplace to have a glass of wine - must be somewhere with a ladies’ parlour round here?”

After a fruitless search - or rather, Bernie having dismissed every establishment they found as not being good enough for Serena - they ended up at a fancy little restaurant, and they stayed there to dine in style. As the waiter served their after-dinner coffee and brought them the check, Bernie stretched contentedly.

“I could get used to dining like that. How about you take on a European chef at McKinnie’s - d’you suppose Mr Di Lucca’s cooking is as good as his stitching? Well, it’s been a real peach of a day, Serena - thank you for your company. Shall we head back to the hotel now for our night cap?”

But Serena had a wicked glint in her eye. “Oh, the evening ain’t over yet. You know what I saw back on Lincoln Street? They got a grand-looking theatre - and there’s a real humdinger on tonight, one of those burlesque shows. You feeling up to it, sheriff?”

Bernie gulped. She was pretty sure this was a terrible idea.


	9. The Sheriff And The Showgirl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serena gets her way and drags Bernie along to the burlesque show, which proves every bit as entertaining as she had hoped. But when Bernie overindulges on the brandy and becomes somewhat enamoured of a certain Miss Carlotta Lopez, Serena is forced to take matters into her own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring drunk!Bernie and jealous!Serena - two of our favourites ;-)

“Oh, come on, Bernie - where’s your sense of adventure!”

Bernie scowled at Serena, who was looking up at her, the expression on her face a mixture of winsome wheedling and downright naughtiness.

“You know very well I’ve had more than enough adventure to last a lifetime,” she said gruffly, looking away determinedly from that persuasive face. “Besides, from what I heard, show like this ain’t hardly decent - I can’t be taking you into this den of iniquity.”

“Oh, so that’s it - is the sheriff a prude?” Serena teased in a sing-song voice. “Or - no - you think _I_ am? Let me remind you what I do for a living - there is literally nothing I haven't seen before - and much more close up than we’ll see anything tonight. What is it exactly you think’s going to shock me more than it would you? Come on - we’re a long time dead, Bernie, and I intend to make the most of being alive. I’ll go on my own if I have to.” And she strode off along the street towards the theatre, leaving Bernie little option but to follow her.

“All right - all right!” She acquiesced, her reluctance evident in her tone. “But the first hint of trouble or - or - or _impropriety_ , I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

Serena turned on her heel, causing Bernie to barrel into her, and she clutched at her arms to steady herself.

“Well, if there _ain't_ any impropriety I shall be asking for my money back. That’s what it’s all about, ain’t it? Look, you and me, we’re pillars of society in Holby City. But here, we’re just faces in the crowd, a pair of strangers enjoying themselves like grown ups are entitled to do. If you really hate the idea, we don’t have to go, but it looks like so much _fun_ , and goodness knows we’re owed a bit of that, hey? It's high time both you and I let our hair down. Of course, if you don’t like the idea of being entertained by a bunch of ladies in their unmentionables - but I hear some of these actresses are real pretty…”

Bernie had to laugh. “All right - all right. We’ll go. Just don’t blame me if you’re shocked - it’s pretty near the knuckle stuff.”

“Sounds like you’re no stranger to the burley-que,” Serena teased, nudging Bernie’s shoulder with her own. Bernie blushed, but smiled, and kept her silence. “Now, where’s that fancy neck tie of yours?”

Bernie dug the folded cravat out of her pocket and stood patiently while Serena tied it around her throat, standing so close to her that she could feel the warmth of her breath against her neck. Serena ran a finger between the silk of the tie and the silk of Bernie’s skin to make sure it wasn’t too tight, then looking up to meet Bernie’s dark eyes, she touched her fingers lightly to her cheek for a heartbeat.

“There,” she murmured, “Just gorgeous.”

***

If Serena had expected a theatre like the ones she had used to visit back in Boston, she was sadly disappointed. While the building was grand enough, the clientele was only just the right side of rowdy; the whole room was cloaked in a dense fog of cigar smoke, and the clink of brandy glasses punctuated what was a roar, rather than a hum of conversation.

“Let’s find somewhere to sit and get you a drink,” promised Bernie. They found seats near the end of a row fairly near the front.

“Perfect!” Serena declared. “We get a fine view, and you can whisk me away if it gets too blue for my delicate sensibilities.” And she fluttered her eyelashes teasingly. Bernie rolled her eyes and went to the bar, returning a few minutes later with a brandy for herself and a glass of punch for Serena.

“What in the hell is that?” Serena demanded, outraged. “Don’t tell me - _and punch for the lady, please bartender_ \- well, I ain’t the only lady in this double act. Here, give me that.” And she swiped the brandy glass from Bernie’s hand, leaving her with the goblet of punch, looking every bit as foolish as she felt. Bernie knocked the fruity concoction back rather than be seen holding the dainty goblet, and another visit to the bar saw her with two glasses of brandy, ready for the next round.

“That’s better,” Serena said primly. “Now, as you’ve learned your lesson, why don’t you go ahead and light that cigar you been fiddling with - I believe that _is_ what you’re supposed to do with them?”

Bernie began to relax a little, and Serena eased up on her teasing. She craned her neck to see the posters pasted up around the walls of the theatre, their bombastic claims reminding her of Professor Gaskell and his travelling circus.

 

_Introducing Miss Antoinette LaFleur,_

_the Singing Sensation of the Plains!_

_Little Maisie Adams will break your heart!_

_Gasp at the daredevil antics of Talullah Thibodeaux_

_and her Talented Troupe of Trapeze Tumblers!_

_Be beguiled by Carlotta Lopez de las Montañas_

_and her fabled feline Dance of the Mountain Lynx!_

  

The evening’s entertainment got off to a tame and unpromising start. Antoinette LaFleur stood a good six feet tall, a long necked, roman nosed woman who sang a sickly sweet song about her “ _Old Prairie Home_ ” in a cracked voice.

Despite the poster having promised to introduce her, it was evident that most of the crowd were all too familiar with her already, and they cheered and booed in equal measure, throwing coins at her on the stage so that she had to duck to avoid them striking her. Undeterred, she launched into song again, this time extolling the virtues of her “ _Dearest Mother Darling_ ” which was just as bad as the first song, if not worse. It brought more coins, and an exhortation from a particularly vocal member of the audience to give her “enough to retire, for God’s sake!” - and she took the hint, frantically scooping up the scattered coins in her skirt to cries of “get her off!”

In the laughter-filled intermission between acts, Bernie leaned in to Serena’s shoulder. “Glad we came?” she asked wryly.

“Well,” Serena said, gazing after the retreating form of Miss LaFleur, “I’m glad to have seen a medical miracle - ain’t never seen a soprano with an Adam's apple before now…”

Bernie’s double take was the stuff of text books - she suddenly sat bolt upright, looking with wide eyes at the surprisingly tall songstress just as she finally left the stage.

“You mean…?”

“Antoinette is Anthony, yes. Seems like you ain’t the only one dressing against type in this theatre,” Serena smirked. “Now shush, the next act’s coming on.”

Little Maisie Adams was a better singer than Antoinette, but it still wasn’t much of an improvement. She was truly little - six or seven years old at the most, and though they wouldn’t have believed it possible, her songs were even more sentimental than her predecessor’s. She affected a lisp to seem more innocent and childlike, and looking at Serena accusingly, Bernie knocked back her entire glass of brandy in one go. Maisie’s songs were maudlin and lachrymose to the point of hilarity, and Serena nearly choked on her laughter as Maisie plaintively asked, “ _Will my thweet little doggie go to Heaven?_ ” The fearsome scowl of a stern looking woman standing in the wings did little to subdue her mirth, and she whispered to Bernie, “I don’t know about her thweet little doggie, but I’m pretty sure her mamma would love to thend Therena to hell!”

After three or four increasingly nauseating songs, Little Maisie took a bow to rapturous applause, taking nearly as long to curtesy and collect the flowers and toys tossed at her as she had taken to sing her awful ballads. Serena could hardly believe the appalling sentimentality of these otherwise rambunctious men and the few women who had come to the theatre, but sure enough, there were genuine tears rolling down the weathered cheeks of these rough, tough pioneers. She and Bernie seemed alone in finding the whole thing absurd and comical, which made it even harder to contain their laughter.

“Oh!” Bernie gasped, wiping tears of a different kind from her own cheeks. “I need another drink after that! Another brandy for the lady?”

While Bernie pushed her way back into the lobby to reach the bar, Serena looked around her with curiosity. She had expected to be one of a very few women at the theatre, but was surprised to see quite a number of respectable looking matrons in the audience, perhaps attracted by the sickeningly sweet Maisie and her dreadful stage mother. What would they make of the subsequent acts, she wondered? For she was hoping for something rather spicier than the first two performers had served up, and as she had said to Bernie, anything short of shocking would be a severe disappointment.

Gradually, her ear tuned in to the conversation of two of those stout matrons, and she amused herself by listening in one of them explained to the other that Tallulah Thibodeaux and her trapeze artistes would be performing in very skimpy costumes, not because it was necessary to their act, but rather due to the prohibitive and outrageous costs of shipping _decent_ costumes out West by railroad - “They are compelled at _painful_ sacrifice to their modesty to shed the light frivolity of dress. How they must blush to be seen in such immodest garments! Why, my husband says I should leave before they take to the air, for he thinks I will be too shocked by their flying above our heads in little more than their undergarments! Bless his heart, I am made of stronger stuff than that.” But as soon as her husband returned from the bar, the two ladies were indeed hustled out of the theatre door by their solicitous husbands, to Serena’s cynical amusement. 

Bernie seemed to be taking her time - it must be busy at the bar - and the two gentlemen who had so thoughtfully ushered their wives back home now provided Serena’s interval entertainment.

“Tom Parker saw these gals over in Eliot Town a while ago, said they don’t wear hardly nothin’! I can’t wait to see ‘em in their little frilly knickers - do you s’pose they really fly right over our heads?”

“Reckon so - look up there, they got all kinds of rigging up in the rafters. I hear Tallulah’s let her self go a bit - you don’t want _her_ falling into your lap! It’s Carlotta Lopez I want to see, though. You know much about her? Oh boy, I got to tell you. She’s been married about a million times - well, three or four at least -and she reckons she’s the illegitimate grand-daughter of Lord Byron - oh, I don’t know, some versifying English aristocrat from the olden days - they say she dresses just like him, in a velvet tailcoat and lace collars and cuffs a-trailing everywhere. They say she’s got two greyhounds she won’t go nowhere without, and sometimes she walks right down the street with a parrot on her shoulder, just like a pirate!” 

The speaker dropped his voice, and Serena had to lean back to hear him. “But that ain’t all. She had all them husbands - but she’s had other fellers too, that she never married - and there’s some as says she enjoys the company of ladies too. Oh, ask your mother, boy, I ain’t explaining it to you. She smokes cigars, and plays tenpins like a regular guy, and when she played the old mining towns, she used to challenge the men to a boxing match - and she used to win! Knocked one feller clean out and broke his jaw. Oh, she’s quite a woman, is Carlotta Lopez de las Montañas - you can see why we had to persuade Amelia and your Eliza to go home!”

Over their ribald laughter, she heard her name being called, and smiled as Bernie pushed through the crown bearing two more brandies. There was quite a glow to her face, and Serena wondered how many more she had put away while she was at the bar. It wasn’t like Bernie to drink to excess, but after all, they were on vacation, and she had been nagging her all day to let her hair down. It looked from her flushed cheeks as though she was doing just that.

“Mm, thank you - your good health. Hey, I’ve been eavesdropping on our neighbours behind us - just wait until I tell you about Carlotta Lopez! I think we’re going to get that scandalous night that you promised me!”

But even as she spoke, the house lights were dimmed and a spot light was trained upon the red velvet curtain across the stage. The voice of the theatre manager rang out loud and clear.

“Ladies and gentlemen - but most particularly, gentlemen! It is my pleasure, my privilege, my absolute delight to introduce to you the sylph-like star of the skies, the angel of the air, that temptress on a trapeze, Miss! Tallulah! Thibodeaux!”

As the audience applauded, cheered and hollered, a second spotlight picked out the form of Miss Thibodeaux descending seated on a trapeze from the darkness of the ceiling high above his head. It was slowly lowered - from her seat on the end of the row, Serena could just see the shadowy form of a stage hand puffing and blowing as he cranked a handle to control the descent - until it hung just above the stage. Miss Thibodeaux postured and posed and smiled at her audience, then with a graceful gesture, dismounted the trapeze - and thudded to the stage with all the elegance of a herd of bison.

The coarser element of the audience - which was most of it - hooted in derision, and in spite of her fixed smile, her face flushed an angry purple. It had to be acknowledged that Amelia’s unchivalrous husband had heard correctly: Tallulah Thibodeaux had let herself go. Silken tights and a spangled corset strained to confine the full curves of a woman who looked more suited to earthly pleasures than to aerial displays. A body that may once have been sylph-like was now positively bacchanalian in its generosity, and Serena, rejoicing in a fuller figure herself, felt a pang of sympathy for her - but then reminded herself that at least she had the good sense not to parade herself in next to nothing in front of a crowd of rowdy gentlemen who seemed to be considering themselves bachelors again for the evening, and her sympathy dissolved. Next to her, Bernie was smothering a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose and covering her smiling mouth. 

“Ladies and _gentlemen_ ,” Tallulah ground out, “Thank you for your warm welcome. I am sorry to say that I myself no longer take to the trapeze for _artistic_ reasons, but I am proud to present my Troupe of Tumbling Trapeze Artistes!” She flung a chubby arm skywards, and the crowd gasped as four genuinely slender and shapely young women swooped down only yards above their heads, as graceful as swallows diving in the summer sky. Like Miss Thibodeaux, they wore revealing costumes of silk and sequins, but they wore it so much better, and glancing to her side again, Serena saw with equal measures of amusement and irritation that Bernie’s jaw had fallen open, and she was tracking the movements of the girls as they flitted and leaped above them.

She leaned in and spoke _sotto voce_.

“Which of these ladies would you say was your type, Bernie? How about her, the blonde with the long legs? She’s pretty, huh? Or what about that one - the dark haired girl with the beauty spot? Do you look for a fair head or dark? Or maybe the redhead - do you think it’s her own hair, or a wig? I guess a wig wouldn't stay on up there, all that throwing herself about - she must be an Irish girl like you. Do any of them take your fancy?”

Serena didn’t know what had got into her, what had made her so daring. Bernie turned with brandy-glazed eyes and a lazy smile. Tipsy and unguarded, and only a little flustered, she surprised Serena by responding, more relaxed and loquacious than she had ever been before now.

“Oh, my ideal woman’s got more to offer than these skinny minxes. I like a fuller figure, you know? A real grown woman. If I had to choose, I guess I’d pick a dark-haired woman, but it’s the eyes and the smile that really get me, y’know - a sparkle to the eyes, and a bit of mischief in her smile, mm hmm. Yes ma’am. And give me a woman who’s seen a bit of the world - these girls are barely out of their christening robes! Not too tall, though - I like to lean down to kiss her. I tell you what, Serena McKinnie - give me a woman just like -”

In the strange intensity of those moments, they had missed the spectacular display overhead, and whatever Bernie had been about to say was drowned out by the roar of crowd. Serena looked up in confusion as the four twirling figures climbed back up the ropes of their trapezes, into the darkness above the bright theatre lights.

What on earth had just happened?

She turned back to Bernie, who shook her head blearily, and, catching Serena’s wide eyed stare, said, “What were we talking about? I’ve gone a little fuzzy.”

Serena was saved from having to answer by the booming voice of the theatre manager introducing the last act, the woman everyone had really come to see. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, she needs no introduction from me: I give you the celebrated, adored, revered - Miss Carlotta Lopez de las Montañas!”

The curtains parted, and there on the stage stood the woman herself, standing in a majestic pose to receive the adulation she clearly knew to be her due. She had an imposing aura about her that made her seem to fill the stage, but Serena judged she was probably not much above five foot five - around her own height, and she looked to be more or less the same age as her, too, though the bright lights and stage make up made it hard to tell. Her glossy dark hair was piled high in an elaborate arrangement, and the proud but mischievous smile that graced her cheeks reached her eyes, which twinkled in the footlights. A spectacular costume of some generic exotic type draped itself across curves that made Tallulah’s figure look even more comical. She turned to say as much to Bernie, only to find that slack-jawed look on her face again, but this time Bernie was very much alert.

 _Oh_.

Serena, who had so been looking forward to this final act, found that she couldn't focus on it at all, and though she was dimly aware of the applause, laughter and gazing admiration of the crowd around her, she couldn’t have related a single thing about the performance to anyone who might ask her. Indeed, it wasn’t until she read a review in the following day’s paper that she had the faintest idea what it was about (“A daring, though somewhat banal rendition of Lord Byron’s _Mazeppa, or The Wild Horse of Tartary_ let down by cardboard scenery, questionable interpretation and an inexplicable lapse of security in the costume department - your correspondent did not know where to look. Nevertheless, Miss Lopez de las Montañas was as radiant as ever, and the feline frolics of her _Dance of the Mountain Lynx_ proved most popular with the gentlemen of the audience.”). 

By the final curtain, Serena's face was like thunder, but Bernie, in her blissful brandy-addled state, dragged her by the hand even before the final curtain had dropped. “Stage door!” She whispered excitedly, not noticing the mutinous look on Serena’s face.

“What exactly are we doing here?” Serena asked through gritted teeth, as they stood waiting at the stage door, a gas lamp above their heads.

Bernie looked at her in surprise. “You heard the lady, didn’t you? You must have seen how she was looking at me - she winked at me when she was singing that risky little song about stage life - you know - _Meet me at the stage door while the other boys are drinking, I’ve seen the way you look at me, I know just what you’re thinking_ \- she wants to meet me, Serena! Carlotta Lopez de las Montañas wants to meet me! Oh, didn’t you think her voice was something, though? That voice, that accent, all deep and rich like Spanish wine… Didn’t you think so?”

Ignoring the dreamy look on Bernie’s face, Serena said stiffly, “I must have nodded off, I guess - I don’t recall a thing about her.”

Just then, a stage hand opened the door and addressed Bernie in a more formal tone than his overalls suggested, “Miss Lopez invites you to join her in her dressing room, sir,” and swept them inside, Serena hanging on tightly to Bernie’s arm. She knew the invitation was for Bernie, but she’d be damned if she was going to leave her alone in there. 

Bernie’s face had dropped at the stage hand’s words, and she whispered glumly to Serena as they were led along a labyrinth of passages. “Sir? I guess she thinks I’m a man, then - I’m going to be a big disappointment for her.” Having heard what she had about Carlotta, Serena was sure she knew exactly what she was getting in Bernie, and her mood darkened even further. 

The young man eventually stopped and tapped at a door which bore a painted star and the actress’s name, and the voice that Bernie had found so alluring called out, “ _Entra, por favor_ , darling!”

Bernie had frozen and was mouthing _darling_ , a look of wonderment on her face, so Serena bit the bullet and pushed the door open. They were greeted by a veritable assault on their eyes, for everything in the room was fashioned in various shades of pink, from salmon to cerise, from rose to raspberry.

“Isn’t it divine? Magenta is my mystical colour - its vibrations chime with my aura and draw primal energies down from the celestial realms to nourish my soul.”

Carlotta was lounging on a chaise longue upholstered in a particularly vile shade of fuchsia, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other dipping sugar cubes in brandy and feeding them to the famous greyhounds which lay at her feet, adorned in leather collars the colour of cotton candy.

Reeling slightly, Serena greeted the actress with a well schooled smile. “Miss Lopez, I do apologise for our troubling you like this - you must be exhausted after your performance. My friend here was under the impression that you had invited us back here for a visit - only I’m afraid you’ve been labouring under a misapprehension. My name is Serena McKinnie, and this is my very good friend Miss Berenice Wolfe. A lady.” she added, to emphasis her point.

Carlotta smiled a slow, wicked smile. “Oh, I know what your friend is, Miss McKinnie, don’t you worry. And isn’t she sweet to bring you with her? Though there was really no need - I don’t bite, Miss Wolfe,” and her smile curved slyly as her gaze slid smoothly to the object of her attentions, “Unless you’d like me to?”

Bernie looked as though she had just been punched by a prize fighter, and she swayed back on her heels slightly as she took in the words, the intent behind them, and the frankly seductive appearance of Miss Lopez - for though it hardly seemed possible, Serena could swear that she was wearing even less now than she had been by the end of her act. 

“Uh.. Miss Lopez de las Mon… de las… uh, Miss Lopez, ma’am, ain’t nobody called me Miss Wolfe since forever. Why don’t you call me -”

“Sheriff Wolfe.” Serena cut in briskly. “Sheriff Wolfe is a pillar of our community, a respectable woman. We both are.”

Bernie’s head swung in confusion between the two women. Why was Serena being like this? Why couldn’t they just get along, two lovely women like them? 

But Miss Lopez had a better idea of how things lay, and she wasn’t pleased at all. No matter. She didn’t need to play nice - she just needed to win.

“Sheriff!” She gasped. “ _Dios mio_! This America of ours, such a place for women, no? And I can see that you must be a very fine sheriff - very fine indeed. Why don’t you come sit here and tell me all about it?” She drew her legs closer to her and patted the end of the chaise longue, and Bernie stepped forward eagerly, but Serena tugged at her hand.

“No need!” she said brightly. “Look, there’s plenty of room here,” and she swept a pile of fluffy coral coloured cushions from a chair beyond the Spanish woman’s reach, and practically pushed Bernie back onto it.

Carlotta’s eyes were no longer sparkling but flashing, and she said sweetly to Serena, “Miss McKinnie, I expect you will want to freshen up after your evening - I know it gets very hot in these theatres, and it is no wonder that it has taken its toll on you.” She wafted a peach coloured fan delicately under her nose, tactfully averting her gaze. Serena glared at her, but she carried on undeterred, tapping at her cheek as though to point out a blemish on Serena’s own. “You know, you have a little - what is that, gravy? - you will be embarrassed when you see it! You can wash your face in the rest room along the corridor there - and do feel free to wash... more thoroughly while you are there. Please, take your time, _querida!_ ”

Unable to do anything other than comply without making a terrible scene, Serena stalked from the room, hissing at Bernie as she passed her, “You behave yourself - and do not move from that chair!” 

Bernie smiled up at her happily. “Ain’t she lovely?” 

Serena made an impatient noise and saying with a meaningful look at Carlotta that she would only be a minute, she left, making sure to leave the door wide open behind her. She hurried along to the rest room and glanced in the mirror - as she had suspected, there was nothing on her cheek, and a quick sniff reassured her that was nothing lacking in her personal hygiene. But in the movement of her head down to her armpit, something caught her eye - something she had quite forgotten about this dress. She smiled a hard, calculating smile. It was time to bring the big guns out. 

A minute or so later, she left the rest room, tucking something into her purse, and seeing without surprise that the dressing room door had now been closed, she pushed it open with no warning, to find Bernie sitting at the foot of the chaise longue, a flamingo pink feather boa round her neck, each end held by the scheming diva.

“Oh, Bernie, darling, that’s really not your colour!” she laughed gaily, and as she leaned forward to unloop the boa from her neck, Bernie’s eyes widened and her slack jaw dropped even further as she took in the expanse of creamy flesh now before her face; the teasing little ruffle of lace that peeked above the dropped neck of Serena’s dress, hinting at some very pretty undergarments, and above all, the deep shadow between Serena’s “big guns.”

“You’re looking kind of tired, honey - let’s get you back to bed and I’ll look after you real good.” She pulled Bernie to her feet, and the other woman trailed after her happily, like a dog after a juicy steak, she thought with a victorious smile. She turned to Carlotta who could barely contain her rage, her face as colourful as any of her hideous trappings. “We’ll let you get your beauty sleep now, Miss Lopez de las Bodegas - you can’t have too much at your age!”

As she swept from the room, a dreamy-eyed Bernie in her wake, she heard a voice that had mysteriously lost its Spanish accent - a Lancashire mill girl, or she missed her guess - howl after them, “You’re as old as I am, you bloody tart! And she’s too drunk to be of any use to me anyway - you’re welcome to her!”

Serena laughed all the way back to the hotel.

***

She was less amused faced with the very drunk and amorous woman she spent half an hour fending off when they got back to their room. It was a battle between her head and her heart - well, she amended, her head and her hormones - but this was not how she had imagined her seduction at the hands of Bernie Wolfe - and oh, she had been imagining it for some time now. She batted away the hands that seemed to be everywhere at once, pawing at her dress.

“You broke your pretty dress, Serena!” Bernie said sadly. “C’mere, I’m gonna fix it for you.” Serena ducked under Bernie’s arm, and Bernie fell back onto the bed, her feet dangling over the edge.

“I didn’t break it, I adjusted it. It’s a day dress I can turn into an evening gown - look, I just unhooked this panel, and I’ll hook it back on tomorrow. Now, let’s get those boots off and get you into bed, hmm?” 

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” Bernie slurred, but even as Serena pulled the long boots from those long legs, the slur became a sigh, and the sigh became gentle rhythmic snores.

“Oh, Bernie,” she murmured. With some effort, she managed to wrestle Bernie’s new buckskins from her prone form. She untied the cravat and drew it out from the collar, but conceded defeat with the shirt and left her to sleep in it. With a wry smile, she remembered the last time she had undressed Bernie and shared a bed with her.

“Maybe it’ll be third time lucky,” she whispered, and allowed herself the forbidden luxury of dropping a soft kiss on Bernie’s cheek.

***

God damn the woman, how could she still be up and dressed before Serena when she had passed out blind drunk only a few hours before! Yet there she was, sitting ready and waiting for breakfast just as she had done the day before,waving the morning’s newspaper at Serena.

“Hey, there’s a review of the show last night! I don’t recall this thing about the horse and the cat - what did I miss?”

Serena shook her head. “Bernie, honey, how are you even upright this morning? What’s the last thing you remember from last night?” 

Bernie squinted a little, rubbing her sore head in thought. 

“There was a little girl sang about a dog… We were laughing at her… I went to the bar and had a couple of brandies or three… Did I bring one back for you?” 

“Of course you did. Don’t you remember anything after that? The trapeze girls? That so-called Spanish creature, Miss Lopez de las Whatnots?” She kept her voice as casual as she could. “You don’t recall getting back here and going to bed?” 

Bernie shook her head ruefully. “Not a darn thing. I don’t know when I last drank like that - being on this little vacation must have gone to my head. Nothing a bit of breakfast and a pot of coffee won’t fix, though. Here, let me pour a cup for you - strong and hot, just how you like it.”

***

Her parcel collected from the morning train, Serena led the way to the stage coach, Bernie trailing behind her again with the luggage. When Bernie suggested she ride up top to keep an eye out for the bandits they had read about, Serena agreed with alacrity, and she spent the journey back to Holby half in fitful slumber, and half in deep thought. She wasn’t altogether sure whether her little plan had been a success or not. She had persuaded Bernie to relax all right - that part of her plan had gone only too well - but if only she could manage the other part without having to get Bernie absolutely roostered first!


	10. Preacherman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reverend Digby is worried about an itinerant preacher who’s come to town and is preaching not love, but hatred to the people of Holby City. Serena and Jasmine go along to hear what he has to say, and it’s worse than they had feared. When Bernie rides in to prevent a riot, there’s a shock in store - and a warning, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy folks - I forgot to tell you after last chapter’s shenanigans: Miss Carlotta Lopez de las Montañas? I didn’t make hardly nothing up but her name. She’s an amalgam of Miss Adah Mencken and one Lola Montez, who between them shared all the foibles and fancies of Miss Lopez. All I made up from scratch was her bisexuality (but really, come on - boxing matches with miners? Gay!) and her roots - but again, who but a Lancashire mill girl would knock out a frontier miner? I’m glad Serena beat her at her own game, but I’m actually quite fond of Carlotta.
> 
> All the other acts were fairly authentic too. I don’t know if Antoinette was really Anthony, but given that the physical description is lifted almost word for word from a contemporary account, I have my suspicions...
> 
> From broad comedy to high drama, now - read on!

Not long after their return from her brief vacation to Wyvern City, the Reverend Digby visited Bernie in her office to voice his concerns about an itinerant preacher who had arrived recently, and was poaching his congregation with impassioned sermons held in a great tent out on the edge of town. He tied up his dog outside, and Bernie gave it a little tin bowl of water, inviting the good Reverend into her office.

“I don’t mind how folks find their way to the Lord,” he told Bernie humbly, “But I can't be sure that he’s not working for the Other Feller. The only God I know’s a God of love and forbearance, but this man - the Reverend Forrest, he calls himself - he’s riling ’em up so’s they're afeared of anyone who’s a mite different. He won’t allow none of our coloured brethren to attend his services; he’s kicked out anyone who speaks anything other than English; he makes the women sit at the back like they’re not worthy of being in his presence, and the things he’s said about our poor, dear Mr Copeland - well, you know I’m a man of peace, ma’am, but he’s fair making me see red. I wouldn’t mind a hoot if a better preacher than me was winning souls for the Lord, but I swear, there ain’t nothing godly about the Reverend Siegfried Forrest, and it’s only a matter of time before folk start turning on each other on account he’s taught them to hate anyone who’s different from them.”

He had taken his hat off when he came in, and was crushing the brim in his hand.

“You think he’s geeing them up to acts of violence? Has he said anything that you could take as a call to arms? I can’t do much if he’s keeping the right side of the law, even if he’s the wrong side of right.”

“I don’t know all the ins and outs of the law, ma’am. I do know he’s talked a heap about the town being ‘cleansed’ of the likes of Mr Levy, and that Mr Copeland was punished for his inclinations - and - and -” his blush was half embarrassment, half anger - “And that Miss Jackson and Miss Shreve are catering to the appetites of wicked men, and making McKinnie’s Hotel into a house of ill repute.”

Bernie’s face grew darker as he spoke. “Reckon I’d better go and take myself along to church, eh, Reverend? See what he has to say for myself.”

Arthur Digby coloured even deeper, and picked more frantically at his hat, but spoke up. “Begging your pardon, Sheriff, but I don’t know as that’s a good idea. When he was talking about Mr Copeland… well, your name kinda came up, too. I can’t repeat what he said, ma’am, because I’m a man of God, and you’re a lady, whatever you wear and however, uh… I mean… but he’s trying to turn ’em against you, too.”

Bernie laid a firm reassuring hand on his shoulder, and spoke calmly. “Now, now, Reverend, don’t get yourself worked up. I’ve heard worse than anything he’s got to say about me, and it don’t bother me none. But talking like that about our girls - I ain’t having that. He don’t say the same thing about Miss Burrows? No, I thought not. So - he don’t like dark skin, or other religions, or those as find love amongst their own. Sounds like a peach, don’t he? I’ll be careful, don’t you worry - there’s more than one way to skin a rabbit, and he’ll be ready for the spit by the time I'm done with him.”

***

That evening, as they shared a bottle of something red and French, Bernie surprised Serena with an invitation.

“Listen, Serena, I know you’re not much of a one for religion -”

Serena snorted. “Superstition, you mean! No, I am most decidedly not.”

“Well, no - and you know I ain’t, neither, but I got a mind to check out this preacherman that’s got everyone so riled up. You want to help me out again? We made a pretty good team dealing with those jumped up snake oil merchants, didn’t we?”

Serena looked at her sceptically. She didn’t wear spectacles, but Bernie could have sworn that she was looking over the top of them at her.

“Bernie Wolfe, are you asking me to go to church on your arm?”

The sheriff floundered for a moment, caught up in a vision of exactly that, then cleared her throat and said, “Well, actually, no - I’m asking you to go to church on Mr Fletcher’s arm. Or maybe take Jasmine along, play the poor widow woman with her only daughter? You did it so well with the professor and his cousin. I have it on good authority that the Reverend Forrest won’t take kindly to a woman in pants, but a handsome woman like you, with a pretty girl in tow… well, if one or other of you catch his eye it’ll be for different reasons - you get me?”

“Huh. I don’t know whether to be flattered, insulted or just plain disappointed. But you're right, we kicked that old faker’s ass pretty well - reckon I might have developed a taste for law enforcement. All right - what do you need me to do?”

*** 

Sunday morning saw Miss McKinnie walking out arm in arm with the youngest of her charges. Neighbours expressing surprise on seeing them out walking in their best clothes on the Lord’s day were met with a polite smile, and an admonition that it was “Never too late to consider our mortality, sister!”

And they were far from alone on their short pilgrimage to the large white tent beyond the palings of the original town’s fence. There was a well worn track in the dust, already worn deep by the footsteps of the curious townsfolk, for whom every new distraction was a thing of wonder and entertainment, at least for a spell. Why, there was Mr Fletcher in his second best suit (his best was reserved for the more somber side of his business); and there were young Miss Self and her stern-faced chaperone, Miss Naylor - though it must be admitted that neither of them looked particularly open to the Word this morning. Serena wondered at their presence. She knew that Bernie had asked Fletch as well as herself to test the waters, and other folk she knew were there either out of curiosity or perhaps even good old fashioned god fearing sentiment, but those two… _Well, ain’t nothing as queer as folk_ , she thought.

Serena had worn an old fashioned poke bonnet this morning, one that hid her face from almost every angle. They had decided that a little anonymity wouldn't be a bad thing - and she was quietly proud of her rationalist stance, and anxious not to be counted amongst the superstitious flock. She kept her head bowed as they entered the tent, and a burly young man in a tight suit instructed them in no uncertain terms, “Ladies at the back, now - don't get above your place, you hear me?” Inwardly seething, Serena inclined her head demurely and ushered Jasmine on to the seats that he had indicated.

“That’s Billy Jones - I stitched his head up when he got kicked by his own horse a couple years back - I’ll have to make sure I don’t get _above my place_ next time he comes to be fixed - I’ll just let him bleed to death.”

Jasmine sat stiffly with her hands knotted in her lap, and looked worriedly at her employer. “Sheriff Wolfe said we was to keep quiet and take notes, Miss McKinnie - we got to rise above it, she said.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry, I can stay quiet when I need to, believe it or not. Look, he’s coming in.”

The Reverend Siegfried Forrest was short, very slim, and as well dressed as he was well spoken. He was clearly a man of some education, and one who was confident speaking before a large crowd. There, though, any semblance at respectability ended, for his speech was as full of bile and hatred as anything Serena had ever heard. Judging by his age, she allowed he had probably lived through the war, and maybe fought, too: she had seen what changes combat and terror had wrought on ordinary men who had been thrown into the mouth of war, and she suspected that he had seen his share of horrors. It was unthinkable that such a sense of hatred towards others could have come from anything other than strife, for surely no-one was born with so much hate inside them?

The two women made discreet notes as his sermon wove between decrying the degeneracy of the non-white peoples and the danger of allowing women to believe they were in any way equal to men: from what he described as the scourge of anti-Christian religions, to the moral depravity of sodomites and women who sought each other's company instead of “performing their natural duty.” Women who _did_ enjoy the company of men fared no better, and Jasmine gripped the edge of her seat with white knuckles and clenched jaw as he described her friends and colleagues as “Hottentot harlots,” but for Serena, the greatest test came as Forrest brought his tirade round to dear Dominic Copeland.

“There are those people here present,” he thundered, “who despite having heard the word of the Lord this very week in this very tent, persist in believing that Dominic Copeland was a good man. _A. Good. Man!_ My fellow Christians, I am here to tell you that Dominic Copeland was not a good man. He was not even a man! Could any real man consider acts of sodomy to be normal? Could a real man contemplate with anything other than horror the notion of embracing another man? Of allowing such intimate contact as belongs between a man and a woman? And worst of all, calling it _love?_ No! A man could never countenance such things, and that, my brethren, is how I can tell you without any shadow of a doubt that Dominic Copeland was not a man, but the very devil, living among you and leading your children astray! I have heard his name spoken with respect, even affection - him, a creature of darkness and evil!”

He paused for dramatic effect, his fiery gaze sweeping across the throng in the tent. Jasmine risked a glance towards Serena, and put a hand firmly over hers - not a moment too soon, for the older woman looked ready to explode. If looks could kill, Siegfried Forrest would have breathed his last, but he carried on unabated.

“I denounce him! I denounce Dominic Copeland as a devil amongst men, and any of you who does not do the same is purchasing themselves a one way ticket on the stage coach to Hell!” There was an uneasy stirring in the tent, at this stranger, charismatic as he was, speaking against their own like this, but he was determined to win them over.

“Denounce him! I compel you in the name of Christ, denounce him! Say it with me now, brothers and sisters: I denounce Dominic Copeland!” A note of desperation had crept into his voice, as it seemed to occur to him for the first time that he may have aimed too high, but he continued his frantic chant: “I denounce Dominic Copeland! I denounce Dominic Copeland! I denounce -”

“I denounce _you_ , you fraud! I never heard a man so preoccupied with sodomy - maybe there’s a reason for that?” The voice rang loud and clear from the back of the tent, and the congregation craned their necks to see who had spoken against the preacher. Serena saw, to her amazement, that Zosia Self was on her feet. In a heartbeat, Miss Naylor had joined her, and added her voice.

“I denounce any man who preaches hate and intolerance! I denounce any man who comes into a peaceful town and tries to stir up trouble between people who respect each other!” 

Mr Fletcher stood now, his voice sounding a bass note to the ladies’ alto. “I denounce _you_ , Mr Forrest! I denounce a man who thinks the colour of a person’s skin is more important than what’s in their heart! I denounce a man who thinks religion is about who you hate, not about who you love!” 

There was a rumble like thunder as the congregation took up their cry, and there was a sense of menace and danger the tent as they surged forward to surround him, broken by the sharp _crack!_ of a pistol. Serena saw the gun in his hand, and saw him slip thought the back of the tent in the ensuing confusion. She grabbed Jasmine by the hand and pulled out towards the entrance of the tent, thankful now that they had been obliged to sit so far back. Once outside, she spoke urgently.

“Jasmine! You run straight to Sheriff Bernie and tell her what’s going on. If she don’t get down here double quick we’ll have a riot on our hands, maybe even a lynching, and that’s no good for any of us. Go!” Jasmine ran hell for leather the short distance back into town, and in no time, Bernie was galloping up and dismounting.

“Serena! Where is he?”

“He got out the back but the boys have got him surrounded. Mr Fletcher and Mr Griffin are trying to hold ’em back, but they’re real mad - they’ll kill him if they get a chance. You got to lock him up for his own safety - or get him out of town.”

Bernie looked over to the angry knot of men around the cowering figure, and gauged her options. Taking a shot, even into the air, was too risky - things were volatile enough already. Instead, she reached for the cowhide whip that hung from her saddle, and approaching the mob, she cracked it loudly.

“Alright, boys, that’s enough! Which one of you is Siegfried Forrest?”

The pathetic figure hunched on the floor slowly straightened up, raising his head at the last moment. “I’m Siegfried Forrest,” he said, in a voice stronger and prouder than he had any right to.

Bernie started, then growled, “The hell you are. You’re Tristan Wood, you son of a bitch. I told you twenty years ago, if I found you, I’d kill you. When did you get religion? Seems to me you ain’t changed much. You still spreading trouble everywhere you go? You still preying on young men and sending them to hell for it?” Every question brought her a step closer to him, and he paled as he recognised her.

“Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m here to uphold the law, so I ain't going to kill you - not today. But you got a choice now, Mr Wood. I can lock you up and send you to Judge Hanssen to face trial for what you did back then, or I can let you go - and leave you to the tender mercies of the gentlemen of Holby City. What’ll it be?”

He looked at her scornfully, taking in her unorthodox appearance. “They made a creature like you a sheriff? There’s evil in this town - first that dead boy, now you. They reward degeneracy with a gold star now?”

Bernie ignored the malice in his voice. “I’m hearing you’d rather take your chances with my friends here - that right?” The men closed in a little, hands twitching perilously near holsters.

“Oh, I’ll come quietly. You can send me to the Judge and see if he believes the word of a woman in a man’s garb more readily than the word of a God fearing preacher.” He held up his hands in surrender, and let her lead him back towards the hitching post where the out-of-towners had tied their horses. He stopped suddenly. “I nearly forgot. I got a present for you, Sheriff Wolfe.” He suddenly whipped his raised wrist forward, and a knife blade flashed in the noonday sun. But Bernie was too quick for him, and her whip cracked out again, and Wood was left clutching his wrist, the knife skittering away harmlessly in the dust.

“Still a dirty cheating coward, then? Well, it’s about time someone taught you some manners,” she snarled, and stepping relentlessly toward him, she cracked her whip again and again as he reeled away from her, red stripes blossoming across his back as he stumbled.

“That’s for Cameron -” _Crack!_ “That’s for my mother -” _Crack!_ “That’s for Alexandra Dawson -” _Crack!_ “That’s for Mariah Jenkins -” _Crack!_ “That’s for Dominic Copeland -” _Crack!_ “And this one’s for me!” And she brought the whip down so hard upon his back that he stumbled to the ground, whimpering and snivelling. 

“Now, I’m going to give you one last chance. Gaol - or Wild West justice?” She gestured once more at the crowd, where even Mr Griffin and Mr Fletcher were spoiling to get their hands on him now.

He clambered slowly to his feet, dragging himself up by the hitching post. But he had one last trick up his sleeve, and summoning up more strength than anyone thought he had left, he swung himself up onto the nearest horse, a handsome chestnut with a star between its eyes, cutting free the tether and kicking its flanks viciously. The frightened beast reared up, but he kept his seat, and once out of range of Bernie’s fearful whip, he called out.

“You think I’m bad? I’m just the voice crying in the wilderness. What’s coming after me, that's the Coming Storm. He’ll make me look like a Sunday School saint. He's going to clean up this town of all the filth like you and those whores, and you’ll pay for what you’ve done today. He’s coming!” He laughed a wild, crazy laugh, and kicked the horse again until it bolted. He wheeled around, cried out again, “He’s coming!” and turned tail, galloping away in a cloud of dust.

Bernie gave him a moment, then calmly raised her pistol, took careful aim, and squeezing the trigger lightly, fired her trademark shot that took the hat off from his head. She showed a penny to one of the small boys in the crowd of women and children that had hung back watching events unfold, and said, “This is yours if you run and bring me that hat.” He raced off and ran back clutching the dusty felt hat, marvelling at the holes shot through from back to front, and Bernie duly exchanged it for the penny.

“You should have killed him,” a hard voice rang out. She turned to meet the flinty gaze of Zosia Self. “He’s vermin - you should have killed him like the rat he is.”

Bernie shook her head slowly. “Begging your pardon, Miss Self, he seems like a man on a mission, and I want to know what that mission is.” 

“You don’t think that was just religious mania - all that ‘voice in the wilderness’ stuff? Sounded pretty crazy to me,” Serena ventured uncertainly. 

“No - he ain’t talking about no fire and brimstone when he says somebody's coming. He’s going back to his boss to tell tales - you notice how much he knew about us, about the town? He came to find something out, something specific, and I want to find out what it was, and who he’s telling. Can’t do that if he’s dead.” She turned back to Miss Self. “There anything you feel like you ought to tell me, ma’am? Seems like he got to you real good. What do you know that I ain't heard about?”

Zosia’s face was a mask, closed and unreadable. “He’s not a good man,” she said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to live. That’s all.” Miss Naylor drew her closer to her, protective and possessive, somehow.

“Come along now, Miss Self, I’m going to get you home. We’ve got plenty of work to do, we can’t be wasting any more time with this foolishness.” She tucked a hand though the younger woman’s elbow and tugged her away, even as the girl looked over her shoulder at Bernie, a strange look in her eye. They walked briskly back towards town, where they had left the little trap hitched outside McKinnie’s along with the little grey mare that pulled it.

“She talks real fancy, Miss Naylor, don’t she, ma’am?” Jasmine was still wide-eyed from all the morning’s excitement. Serena looked fondly at the girl, just on the cusp of womanhood, so smart, but so easily impressed.

“She’s a governess, Jasmine, it’s her job to ‘talk fancy’ as you put it. You could do with spending some time with her, knock some of your rough edges off. Maybe we’ll pay her a visit one of these days.”

Gradually the crowd dispersed and started heading back towards town - and towards the Revered Digby, who drew them in to his church, his one good arm open in welcome, a humble smile on his pleasant face. “Good morning ladies, gentlemen! Thank you for allowing me a little lie in this morning - I do appreciate it. Shall we start our service now? Come on in and take a pew.”

Only Bernie remained at the deserted tent beyond the city limits, gazing thoughtfully at the settling dust in the distance. What had Tristan Wood been doing here? He had been as shocked to see her as she had been surprised to see him, so he had not come in search of her. Who, then? And who was he working for: who was the storm that he had prophesied would come?

 

Bernie had work to do.


	11. The Kellersville Massacre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tristan Wood doesn’t last long out on his own, and by the morning, an unknown someone has delivered him, beaten and bound, to the sheriff’s door. As Bernie interrogates him, the pieces start to fall into place - but then they are interrupted by terrible news from Kellersville.

After their eventful vacation in the big city, Serena and Bernie had resumed their cordial companionship, and if Bernie ever regained any further memories of the evening they met Carlotta Lopez de las Montañas, she made no mention or sign of it to Serena. The doctor had become painfully aware of the depth of her feelings since that night, and every night after they had shared their customary nightcap, she felt something akin to a physical pain as Bernie left to climb the stairs to her own rooms. But that drunken fumble in the hotel room had left her with hope, and a day didn’t go by without she gave Bernie some little gesture or token of affection, whether it was a sweet treat to go with her coffee, or an especially bright smile as she straightened the sheriff’s collar before she left to go over the road to the gaol house.

Bernie’s bedroom was at the back of the hotel, so even though she was a light sleeper, she didn’t hear a thing the morning after Tristan Wood had escaped, until Serena gave a sharp cry from her private drawing room. Bernie raced down the stairs in her pants and shirt, grabbing her boots as she ran, and was relieved to find Serena at the window, practically leaning out.

“I thought something had happened, Serena - what’s all the noise about?” She finished tucking her shirt into her pants as Serena turned to her.

“Something has happened - look.” And she pointed over the road to the porch of the gaol house, where a large bundle of something dirty, bloodied and _moving_ was trussed up.

“What the - what is that? Has somebody left me a wild dog or something?” 

“Have another look, sheriff - wild dogs don’t wear boots.”

Uttering a soft curse, Bernie looked up and down the length of the high street, but could see no trace of whoever had delivered this unwelcome parcel. She sat on the edge of a chair to pull her boots on, and asked Serena if she had seen or heard anything. 

“You know me, I don’t wake up for nothing except coffee or my own bladder. I just saw him the moment before you came down. I reckon we can guess who it is, though.”

Bernie nodded grimly, and as they reached the stoop, she prodded the ragged bundle, and there came a moan as it rolled over. Serena bit back a gasp: he had been so badly beaten that she could barely recognise the sharp features of Tristan Wood, and he was trussed up so tightly that she was surprised he could even breathe, let alone make a noise. Something was niggling at the edge of her mind, but as Bernie spoke, it fled.

“Looks like somebody gave you that warm welcome after all, then, Mr Wood. Now don’t keep making that unseemly racket, for pity’s sake, I ain’t going to hurt you more’n you been hurt already. This here is Doctor McKinnie, and I’m going to ask her to look you over, and then you and I are going to have a little chat, okay?”

But there was something so horribly familiar about his broken body that Serena said, “Actually Sheriff Wolfe, I’m going to ask Mr Di Lucca to step over here and lend some assistance.” They exchanged a look, and Bernie nodded.

“Thank you, Doc, I’d be obliged.”

Even in the tension of the situation, Serena gave a little smile. _Doc_ \- Bernie had been calling her that for a little while now. She kind of liked it. 

Mr Di Lucca tutted over Wood’s injuries once they had untied him and laid him out in one of the cells, but he was of the opinion that despite a few broken ribs and a cracked cheekbone, there wasn’t much wrong with other than a lot of bruising. 

“There’s always a chance of internal injury though, so call across if he gets any worse.” She thanked him and saw him to the door, locking the metal grille between the cells and her office. 

She pulled a straight-backed chair into the cell and set it opposite the cot Tristan Wood lay on, and turning it back to front, sat astride it. She showed him the bottle of whiskey in her hand and said, “I ain’t asking Doctor McKinnie to waste any of her fancy medicines on you - you want to numb the pain a little, you go right ahead and take a dose of vitamin whiskey.” She passed him the bottle, and after a moment’s hesitation, he lifted it with some difficulty to his bruised mouth and took a swig, and then another before she took it back. 

“You ain’t too holy to let a drop of liquor pass your lips, then, mister preacherman. You believe any of that poison you were spouting yesterday? Well, never mind, that don’t matter too much in the grand scheme of things. But you’re going to tell me about the Coming Storm now, ain’t you?” 

He turned his face away from her, but she simply nudged it back with the bottle and encouraged him to take another drink. 

“Here’s what you’re going to tell me - you listen up. You’re going to tell me who put you in this state and who brought you here this morning, and you’re going to tell me all about the man you been travelling with - what’s his name? And don’t give me that Coming Storm bullshit again.” 

His eyes were already a little glazed over from the whiskey, but if it had dimmed his vision, it had also started to loosen his tongue. 

“It’s what he calls himself - he’s crazy. I said to him, I can’t call you that, you got to give me a name, something I can call in a bar or down the street. He laughed, and he said, well you’d better call me Wrymouth, then. He said I could call him that when we were together, but I’m always to talk about him to other folk as the Coming Storm. He’s wrong in the head, you know? I think what happened to him in the war broke something in his brain.” 

“How long you been travelling with him - where d’you meet?” 

Wood took another sloppy swig of whiskey. “After what happened with your brother in New York -” 

“After you killed my brother - go on,” she corrected him calmly. She wanted to hear his story, but she would not let him talk about Cameron’s death as though it were just something that had simply _happened_.

He nodded slowly, meeting her eyes for a second. “After - that, after you left to find that girl - sorry, ma’am - woman - I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t go home, the Army wouldn’t have me back and I lost my way in the world. I travelled around a bit, tried to find somewhere new to start over, but I had to go a long way to find somewhere they hadn't heard of Tristan Wood. So I changed my name, and I travelled on, and I’d settle down somewhere and get work of a sort, but my old trouble always found me out.”

“Folk’s’d find out who Tristan Wood was?”

“No, ma’am, my - other trouble, that started it all for me.”

“Boys.” It was a bald statement of fact, not a question, and he nodded miserably, hanging his head.

“Yes, ma’am. I couldn't help myself - still can’t. I wish someone’d shoot me for it, I do, or find a way to stop me wanting it.”

Bernie had no time for his self pity. “Go on, get to the point.”

“I got found out once too often, found myself in gaol, which was pretty bad once they knew what I was in there for. The governor, he liked it if the prisoners got religion - gave them better treatment, went softer on them. So, I made sure I got religion. I was a lot smarter than most of the men in there, and I set myself up as a preacher - it isn't hard to do if you’ve got a little bit of learning under your belt, and the governor let me run the chapel, gave me my own cell, better protection. Once I started denouncing the kind of man I was myself, the other men took a lot better to me - they liked to know there was someone worse than them in the world, and I fuelled that from my soapbox pulpit. 

“The governor was so impressed by what he thought was my miraculous conversion, and my preaching to the other men, that he put me up for early release. There were conditions - I had to be in gainful employment, I wasn’t to be around boys younger than sixteen, and I had to keep preaching. He got me a job on the railroads - wasn’t much better than gaol, but at least nobody knew what I was, and there were no youngsters there to tempt me. I didn’t have my comfortable cell, or my chapel, or any of that - but I was free, and I determined to start over again.”

He stopped for another pull at the bottle.

“That’s where I met him, on the railroad. It was hard work, swinging a great hammer all day, lifting the rails, driving in the spikes, and it took a hard man to do it. The hardest of ’em all was this tall man with a cold face on him. There were plenty of men stronger than him, but nobody meaner, and nobody messed with him. My years in gaol left me with a habit of looking for someone to get in with, a Mister Big to be a kind of protector.

“It took along time to win his confidence, but I persisted. I was civil to him, respectful, but I wouldn’t show fear like a lot of the other men on the rails, and he kind of admired that. And I used to see him watching me preaching, a calculating sort of look on his face. I was pretty good at the preaching by then, and I knew my audience, how to whip them up, calm them down. I could judge their mood and turn it whatever way I wanted, and I could see he thought that was a good trick.

“One night he came to my tent with a bottle of whiskey, kicked the other men out and sat on my cot. He said, _you work for me now, Forrest_ , and I just said, _yes, sir, I do_. He was an angry man, and never smiled unless it was at someone else’s misfortune, but I kept on the right side of him and made myself useful - we were useful to each other. There was work for ever on the railroad, but most men didn’t last too long - they died of exhaustion, they died of disease, they died in accidents - and a lot of them just up and left when they couldn’t take it any more. I wasn't planning to do it for ever, and nor was he, and we both reckoned we could keep being useful to each other.

“I told you he was angry, and bit by bit, I found out why. It took a lot of whiskey, a lot of soft-soaping, and a long time, but I got it all in the end. He was a Northerner like me, though he didn’t talk like it. He’d been set to marry before the war, a rich woman, an heiress, but she wouldn’t have him. He was a Northerner like I said, but he had family down South, and property he’d inherited but never seen - and having property south of the line meant having slaves, too, and she wouldn’t hold with it. Said if he wouldn’t free his slaves, make reparation and get right out of the South, she wouldn't have anything to do with him.

“Well, he didn't like being told what to do, and he wouldn’t do it - said it was his birthright, his own inheritance. He tried to force her into marriage, and her folks did too, but she was a stubborn little thing, set on getting an education rather than marrying anyway, and she sent him packing. After that, he went down to claim the plantation his cousin had left him, but he couldn’t forget the inheritance he’d lost by not marrying, so he started looking round for another easy target. He found another landowner not too far from his plantation, rich as you like, a good farmer, fertile land - and a young unmarried daughter.

“He bided his time, found out everything he could about the plantation, about the family, then introduced himself as a long-lost cousin - well, you know those Southern families, they go on for ever, so no-one was surprised to find a branch they didn’t know about before. He insinuated himself into the family, made himself useful to the landowner. Helped him with his books, inspected his fields and paddies, that sort of thing - he’d even changed his name to seem more plausible. I only know him as Wrymouth, but for a spell at least, he went by the name of Dawson.”

Bernie felt a chill run the length of her spine.

“What did you say?”

He looked up, startled by the barely controlled menace in her voice. The look on her face was a terrible thing to behold, though he couldn’t name what he saw there.

“Dawson - that was the name of the landowner. He changed his own to persuade him he was family - it’s not unusual for folk to marry within the family down there, as long as there’s a branch or two between them. That name mean something to you?”

“Never mind that, just get on with it. Drink if you need to.” 

He drank and talked, and talked and drank, until Bernie had the full picture before her. The next part of the story she knew only too well, and she listened grimly as he described the discovery of his intended bride in the arms of a woman, and his cold blooded murder of the pair and an escaped slave. He had persuaded Robert Dawson that he had gained the promise of her hand, and that she had drowned and been swept away in a tragic accident, her companions fleeing in terror at being blamed. He had feigned deep mourning along with the girl’s father, and not long after, Robert had died - whether of heartbreak or in more sinister circumstances was not clear - and Wrymouth inherited the plantation as he had always intended. 

“He thought he’d made it, overcome being spurned by two women in succession, and he was one of the biggest landowners in the State. But then came the war, and I guess you know what that meant for a Southern landowner. By the end of the war he’d lost everything - his slaves, his crops, and both his houses - it wasn’t just Atlanta that burned in ’64. From what I could tell, it sent him right off the rails - I don’t know what he’d done to wind up in gaol, but I’d believe anything of him - and then he wound up working on the railroad like me. He was so angry and bitter at his reduced circumstances, and I still felt the same, all those years on, from losing my commission and getting turned out of the family home. I know, I know, it was all of my own making, but it doesn’t stop a man feeing wronged.”

“I won’t tell you again. Just tell me about him - this Wrymouth, Dawson, whatever his name is. You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself.” Her voice was hard, and her face harder, and Wood remembered who he was talking to: remembered how merciless her brother had been in the pursuit of justice.

“I told you he was crazy. He got hell bent on tracking down the woman he was set to marry back before the war - he said if he’d married her, none of this would have happened. He couldn’t seem to see the logic in it - or the lack of it - all he could see was that she must have inherited her fortune by now, and he thought it should be his, but he wanted his revenge on her as well.

“So that was what kept him going - wanting to find her, and it suited me all right - we just kept moving on, and we worked out our pitch for every new place we hit. I’d go in and preach to anyone dumb enough to lap it up, and I’d find out everything I could about the place - first of all whether this woman was there or not - and she never was - and then where the money was, what houses were worth turning over, then Wrymouth would go in all guns blazing, relieve them of their burdensome wealth. It all worked like a charm until we came here - and you recognised me.”

“All right - I heard enough for now. But tell me one more thing and I’ll leave the bottle with you. Who did this to you? Who was it trussed you up like a bird ready to roast and delivered you to my door?”

But he refused to talk about who had chased him down - there was a sense of shame about him that she couldn’t quite figure out, and she left his cell with the bottle swinging from her fingers as she slammed the door and locked it. She put the half empty bottle away in a drawer of her desk and sat down heavily. After all this time, she had found not only Tristan Wood, who had killed her brother and caused the death of her mother, but she was only a heartbeat away from tracking down the man who had killed her lover and her friend, and had left her for dead. Her head was spinning so she could hardly make sense of it all, and she pulled a journal towards her to try and make notes on what Wood had told her.

But before she had a chance to even take up her pen, there was a great clamour in the street, and she heard the heavy hoofbeat of a galloping horse, and a hoarse cry of “Massacre! Massacre! Sheriff, come quick - there’s been a massacre out at Kellersville!”

***

Bernie rode back at the head of the sad little caravan. Behind her, Mr Fletcher’s cart bore the corpses of three Kellersville men who had been cut down by an unknown assailant just around sunrise as they had been saddling up for their day’s work. She hadn’t known any of them, but they were still her people, and they had been under her protection. Her shotgun was across her arm, ready to raise the moment she saw or heard anything that might be the killer, but everything was calm and still.

Kellersville was hardly even a village, just a few houses nestled round the foot of Mount Holby where the Keller ranch had its northern boundary, and to lose three of its men was calamitous - and they had already lost young Mr Copeland. The other inhabitants were in shock - even Miss Self and Miss Naylor, usually so strong and unshakeable, had looked pale and anxious.

“We found them at around six this morning, here in the stables - they were still warm.” Miss Self explained. “Johnny was lying just outside, then Billy and Carlos were in the stalls - this one here, and here - Billy’s horse was already saddled up, looked like Carlos had the saddle in his hands ready to tack up when they came.” 

“When he came,” Bernie corrected her. “Look at the dust - I can see your footprints, and these here are where they struggled, but there ain’t enough prints for more than one man. You can see where he’d been waiting in the hayloft and dropped down - must’ve dropped pretty much right on top of Billy. You found ’em at six, you say?” Bernie levelled an even gaze at her. “Early risers, ain’t you?” 

“When there’s work to be done,” Miss Naylor replied impassively.

The sheriff lifted the corner of the piece of sacking that had been laid over one of the bodies. “I seen him before, this one - he was with the preacher yesterday morning, telling folks where to sit.”

Miss Self’s eyes had turned to flint at the mention of Tristan Wood. “Billy Jones was a bully, and he liked what the preacher had to say - I reckon he saw the world pretty much the same way as that faker.”

“And what about Johnny and Carlos?”

The young woman’s changes in mood were mercurial, as flint dissolved, and she spoke with real tenderness. “Carlos was just a boy - her was a sweet kid. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but he was a fine young man. He and Johnny were thick as thieves - a real nice friendship like you don’t always see among men. Johnny - he was a bit older, not by more than a year, though, and he looked out for Carlos, took him under his wing. He protected him when that - uh, any time Carlos was in any trouble.”

“When that preacherman came sniffing round, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? You be straight with me now, Miss Self.”

Angry with herself for her slip, Miss Self glanced nervously at Miss Naylor, who rolled her eyes and nodded. “That preacher Forrest? Wood? - whatever his name was. He was round here two or three nights ago, talking to Billy. After a while he left, and we supposed he was going back into Holby City, but when Johnny went out to see to the horses, he was out here behind the stables, and he was - well, Sheriff, not to put too fine a point on it, he was trying to force himself on Carlos. Johnny frightened him - he was a big lad for all he was so young, and he took the preacher by surprise - he made a run for it and took off on his horse, and I didn’t see him again until Sunday.”

“And you ladies wouldn’t know anything about how he came to be delivered to my door with two black eyes and a bunch of broken ribs yesterday morning, I suppose?”

Miss Naylor’s expression was one of scorn. “You think two ladies like us could have subdued a man - even one as pathetic as him?”

Bernie inclined her head courteously and said non-commitally “I try never to underestimate a lady, Miss Naylor. Why, don’t forget, I used to be one myself.”

*** 

Back in Holby, she helped Mr Fletcher unload his sad cargo into the back room of his workshop. He shook his head grimly.

“Guy Self’s gone too far this time, Sheriff Wolfe. You got to stop him.”

“Guy Self spent the night in my cells, Fletch. Roaring drunk and still reeling from a fight - my deputy slung him in there at three this morning, according to the ledger. Whoever did this, it wasn’t Mr Self. And I spent the morning in conversation with our other guest - I’m pretty sure I know who done this. Where he is now, though - that’s another question.”

***

It was a question that Serena could have answered for her, for at that moment in the empty bar over at McKinnie’s, the saloon doors swung open, and as she looked up, the blood drained from her face as though she had seen a ghost.

“You!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were dead!”


	12. Dead Man Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even as Bernie realises the true identity of the man who calls himself the Coming Storm, Serena is confronted by a man she thought long dead. And there's more trouble to come as there is another disturbance at McKinnie’s Hotel.

Bernie looked back over her notes, scratching her head. She had a feeling there was something she had missed - something important. She had been so wrong-footed at hearing the name Dawson, and everything that followed, that she had lost her focus, and she had a terrible nagging sensation that there was something Wood had said that she had meant to follow up. What was it? It was so hard for her to get past the thought that the man who had called himself Alexandra Dawson’s cousin was somewhere so close, and striking at her people once again, but she had to put that aside. There was something else there, she was sure of it.

She combed over her carefully annotated record of Wood’s stream of whiskey-fuelled recollections and confessions, but she still couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe another tactic would yield fruit. She closed her eyes and tried to remember everything she had heard bout the preacher Siegfried Forrest, before she had known who he was. He had preached against sodomy and pederasty - his own self-loathing evident in the vehemence of his tirade - but he had touched on the supposed wickedness of Donna and Morven, too - and there had been a sly swipe at women who thought themselves a man’s equal. She had thought that was about her, but what if -

Suddenly it fell in to place with a sickening clarity, and she strode though to the cells, unlocked Wood’s cell and marched in without warning or apology, slamming the door behind her. He had been sleeping, the whiskey he had consumed earlier in the day knocking him out for several hours. He woke with a start, then with a groan as his injuries reminded him of the ordeals he had been through, first Bernie’s whip, then at the hands of whoever had fetched him back to Holby.

The Sheriff stood over him, her hand on the butt of her pistol, and he didn’t doubt that she was ready to use it one way or another. He shook his head a little, trying to clear it from the fog of pain and alcohol.

“You don’t need to threaten me, Miss Wolfe - Sheriff - I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I can’t go back to Wrymouth now I’ve talked - he’d kill me soon as look at me - so I might as well talk. What do you want know?”

“You’re going to tell me why everything you preached against yesterday leads back to McKinnie’s Hotel - oh, don’t think I hadn’t noticed. What is it about that place that you’re so interested in, hey? Dominic Copeland, the girls that work there - who, I got to tell you, are many things - but harlots ain’t one of them - and women who think they’re as good as a man to do a job - if that wasn’t about Serena McKinnie I’ll eat my hat. So come on, out with it. Why the interest in McKinnie’s?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I thought I told you. Every town we go to, he makes me ask if there’s a lady doctor, if they ever heard the name McKinnie before. I never got a good answer until we came to Holby. He’s said we wouldn’t rest until we found her - well, whatever else happens to me now, at least I can rest. We found her - Serena McKinnie, the woman that wouldn’t marry him.”

***

“You should have married me, Serena.”

Serena stood with her back flat against the bar, the look on her face one of astonishment, bewilderment and outright horror at the man who stood before her. Edward Campbell, the man she had been engaged to, whom she had sent away from her in revulsion, and who had died twenty years ago. That was what she had been told - that was what everyone believed. How was it possible that he was standing here now, so many years later, and so many miles from where they had last met in that last fiery confrontation?

The years had not been kind to him, and he appeared many years older than her now. His fine head of hair was a thing of the past, and what little remained to him was cut close to the scalp. Deep creases marred his once handsome face, and years of hard living had left a grey tinge to his complexion, and had given him a physique that was gaunt and stringy, with no impression of strength or vigour. But the look on his face made her shudder. It was as though his soul had been hollowed out, replaced by a hard, angry malevolence.

Serena’s voice was more confident than she felt. “They told me you were dead - said you’d been killed in the war. What happened?”

He sneered. “You thought I’d fight for a cause that wanted to take my birthright away? All Lincoln and his tin soldiers ever wanted was to stop men like me earning a living and making our way in the world - why would I give up my life for men like that?”

Her fear abated as her anger surged. “You didn't want to earn a living - you wanted other men and women to earn it for you, for no pay, no reward and no liberty! You haven't changed, Edward. How could it be anyone’s birthright to deny freedom to another soul - let alone hundreds of folks?”

“You never did understand what you were giving up when you turned me away, did you? You could have been the finest lady in North Carolina, and you turned it down for what? To play at doctors and nurses in a tin pot little town like this? But I’m giving you a second chance, Serena. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time - and now I’ve found you. You broke your promise to me all those years ago when you changed your mind about marrying me. You were keen enough until you got all your grand ideas about equal rights - but you’re going to keep that promise now.”

He stepped towards her, but she whirled around to put the bar between them. Damn, but she wished someone would walk in to the bar right about now, preferably Bernie.

“I didn’t promise you anything - my father may have done, but I never did. And I didn’t suddenly get ideas about equal rights - I always knew right from wrong in that regard, but I did suddenly find out what your views were on the matter. I couldn’t have been the wife of a man who kept slaves, who thought it was even possible to own another human being! My father wanted me to marry you - it was never what I wanted!”

“You’re protesting too much, Serena - any red blooded man knows what that means.” Edward smiled at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, and he put his hands on the bar, his body leaning across it towards her.

She stood her ground, refusing to show fear. “When a woman says no, it means no, and any man who thinks it means anything different is either deluded or wicked. My father was a fool. He couldn’t believe a woman wouldn’t want to get married, but any promise he made was his, not mine. Now, you, on the other hand - if you pretend my no is a yes, that’s just wickedness, and you know it. Just give it up, Edward - it’s all ancient history now, anyway.”

But he was not to be dissuaded.

“You don’t mean that. Your name’s still McKinnie - you never married, and I know why - you never got over me, just like I never got over you. I’ve seen this town - there’s not a man here could hold a candle to me. You got a preacher here, I’ve seen him - mealy mouthed man with one arm - get him in here and we’ll finish what we started all that time ago.”

It was clear that he was not going to leave of his own accord. Desperate to distract his attention, she kept him talking, playing to his evident belief in his own importance to her. She knew that one of the pistols lay beneath the bar, kept loaded as always, and as they talked, she edged her way nearer to it, keeping her movements small and as spontaneous looking as she could.

“They told me you went away to the war, told me you’d been killed down in Virginia - I was sorry to hear you were dead, of course I was - how is it you come to be standing in front of me now?”

He boasted of the success he had made of his plantation, of increasing his estate by befriending a neighbour, who was “childless - well, by the time it came to matter, he was,” and while he spoke of his gains and increases in wealth, he spoke proudly, and she saw a hint of the arrogant young man she had known before the war. But as he told of the destruction of his property during General Sherman’s march to the sea in the November of 1864, his voice grew hard and resentful once more. She managed to keep him talking for a little while, but his patience soon wore thin.

“Enough chatter! I haven’t been tracking you down all this time just to make small talk. You get out from behind that bar before I drag you out, and we’ll go and find that preacher of yours. Get out here, woman.” He lunged across the bar to grab her, but as quick as a flash, she had drawn the pistol on him, and held it trained steadily between his eyes.

He laughed. “You wouldn’t dare. You ain’t got it in you, little nursemaid like you!”

“Wouldn't I? I’m a doctor, and I’m sworn to preserve life where I can, and you can bet your sweet life that I’m going to do just whatever it takes to preserve my own. The gaol’s only just across the road, the minute I fire a shot, the sheriff’ll be over here.” She came out from behind the bar, the pistol still held firmly in her unwavering grasp. She advanced steadily to the door, and seeing the steel in her eyes, he backed off, hands held aloft a little.

“All right, all right - I’m going. But I’ll be back, you mark my words. I’ll be back to claim what’s mine, you’ll see.” With a well practiced flick of his wrist, he untethered a rangy mare from the hitching post and swung up to the saddle. “I’ll have what’s mine, Serena McKinnie - you tell that preacher to start practising them vows!”

As he galloped up Main Street and the dust subsided, Serena heard the door of the gaol bang open, and Bernie ran across the road to her.

“Serena! I’ve got to warn you - I found out about the Coming Storm - it’s someone who knows you - calls himself Wrymouth. You know who that is?”

Serena lowered the pistol at last and gestured down the road after him. “His name ain’t Wrymouth,” she said grimly. “It’s Edward Campbell.”

***

Bernie’s pursuit of Campbell proved fruitless - he had had too much of a head start on her, and the trail ran cold where he had crossed the Holby River. It seemed certain that he would return, and she decided to conserve her energy, retiring to the hotel some hours later to glean what information she could from Serena. They sat in the parlour behind the bar where the girls had their lessons, and Serena filled in the details missing from the story Bernie already knew.

“My father was an old fashioned kind of man - a doctor, just like yours, but where yours was a wild, adventurous army man, mine was a stuffy old scholar, prim and proper like you wouldn’t believe. He was from the old country - from Scotland, that is, studied medicine at Edinburgh University, so he had a pretty high opinion of himself and his intellectual capabilities. He was the type that would argue over whether women had souls, and though I know he loved my mother in his own way, she was a pretty little toy for him, not a whole person in her own right. He treated her like she’d shatter in a stiff breeze, wouldn’t let her do anything that looked like work - just about drove her out of her mind, intelligent woman like her.

“He was flattered when I took up an interest in medicine, just like him, but he thought it was only ever a passing fancy for him to indulge. He couldn’t understand that a woman could want anything other than marriage, didn’t believe women would ever be doctors, or lawyers, or anything other than wives and mothers, but I knew we could do anything we damn well pleased. Why be a doctor’s wife when you can be a doctor? Anyway, that wasn’t how he saw it, and soon as I reached twenty one years of age, he started looking around for a suitable match for me.

“Lord only knows what an unsuitable match would have looked like, for his idea of a good one was Edward Campbell, a cocksure young buck with no ambition other than to make money, no skills to speak of, and no interest in me as a human being. My folks were rich - what some fools call old money - and we had the respect that came along with it, so I suppose I was a pretty enticing prospect for a man who just wanted to accumulate wealth. He had his own money, of course, in a modest sort of way, but he had expectations of an inheritance from a cousin with no living offspring.

“Well, there only three problems with my father’s plan. One - I didn’t want to get married - not to anyone; two - I couldn’t abide Edward Campbell, and three - even if I had cared a jot for him, his money was dirty and his morals worse. Although he’d grown up in New England like me, his family were Southerners, and they flourished on the labour of slaves, and I couldn’t countenance the notion of marrying into that kind of wickedness. I told him I would only marry him if he either relinquished any claim to his cousin’s estate, or reformed the plantation, and grant all the slaves on it their freedom - real freedom, not just paying them a pittance so they were still chained to the land.

“I knew he wouldn’t accept my terms, though I calculated that in the unlikely circumstances that he did, my own marital slavery would be a small price to pay in exchange for the freedom of so many men and women. But of course he didn’t agree. Oh, he ranted and raved, said I’d been promised to him, that if my father was any kind of gentleman, he’d make sure I married him if he had to walk me to the altar at gun point, but that was a threat too far even for my father. The engagement was broken off, and Edward Campbell joined the US Army in a fit of pique. Not long after that, I read in the newspaper that he had been killed at the Battle of Chancellorsville.”

Bernie interjected, “My guess is that his joining the Army was just his ticket South, and when he got there, he just up and left, and changed his name to avoid being hunted down and shot for desertion. Either way, he got his plantation, and he got his neighbour’s, too, like he told you. He tell you their name?”

Serena shook her head. “Wouldn’t have meant anything to me if he had - I never had any dealings with anyone in the Carolinas.”

In a voice calmer than she could believe, Bernie said, “Maybe not - but I did. His neighbour was Robert Dawson - and your Edward Campbell is my Edward Dawson. He’s the man that murdered Alexandra and Mariah, and tried to kill me.” As Serena gasped in shock, she continued. “He and Wood have been looking for you ever since they met working the railroads. I don’t know if he’s right or not, but he seems he thinks you’re a wealthy woman - and he’s got it into his head that your money is his by rights. Wood reckons he’s crazy - I think he’s right, but that don’t make him any less dangerous - more, if anything.We got to be real careful here, Serena.”

Still reeling from this turn of events, Serena barked out a humourless laugh, and predicted, “He’s going to be even crazier when he discovers there’s no money to speak of. I inherited a good sum of money all right, but it paid for my medical education, then to set me up in practice. When I moved out here and bought the hotel - well, there was a lot of work to do on the building, and I had to keep the hotel going just to pay for drugs and medical supplies. There’s no money left - he might as well just give up now.”

Bernie shook her head slowly. “I don’t think he’ll give up. I don’t think he can. From the way Wood talks about him, he’s got something broken in his head - he’s going to keep on until he can’t go no more - but don’t you worry, Serena, I’m going to find him and put him behind bars before he ever has a chance to come near you again.”

She leaned forward, her hands covering Serena’s own, and a look of such earnestness on her expressive face that it was all Serena could do to refrain from leaning in to kiss her. She squeezed her hands tight around Bernie’s.

“I know you will, darling - how could I feel anything but safe with you looking out for me? But you promise me you’ll keep yourself safe, too. I couldn’t bear it if anything was to happen to you - I just couldn't.”

For a long moment, they looked at each other, hands joined, another strand in the fibre of their friendship twining around their hearts. The intense moment was broken by a sharp noise that broke through the buzz and chatter of the busy saloon bar, and Bernie was suddenly alert.

“You hear that? Who’s upstairs?”

Serena was suddenly on edge, and she dropped Bernie’s hands. “Oh, don’t worry yourself about that - it’ll just be the girls. I expect they’re cleaning up, maybe knocked over a jug or something.”

Bernie glanced to the ceiling. “Ain’t that the room you keep locked up? You always say no one goes in there but you - you sure it’s the girls?” She had risen to her feet, a hand hovering by the gun at her hip, and Serena tugged at her sleeve.

“No - it’s the little study room the girls use from time to time. Sit down, honey, it was nothing.”

But in another lull in the chatter from the bar, an odd scuffling sound penetrated from the kitchen, and they heard the back door bang shut. Serena was startled now, whatever reticence she had displayed before forgotten in a heartbeat.

Bernie leaped to her feet, her pistol cocked ready. “You stay here,” she ordered Serena, who ignored her entirely as they cautiously pushed open the connecting door. There was little sign of what had just happened, but Serena noticed a puff of white powder by the door. Bernie opened the back door, and stepping round the corner, looked up ad down the street, but there was only a little cart heading sedately up Main Street, something bulky in the back covered over with sack cloth. She turned back, puzzled, but even as she opened her mouth to speak, they heard another sound from upstairs; a furious dull drumming sound, and a muffled cry.

Bernie pushed Serena behind her and made her way up the stairs, as swift and silent as a mountain lynx. Gesturing at Serena to stay downstairs, she approached the little study, the source of the thumping sound. She listened at the door for a few seconds that seemed like hours to Serena, waiting below, then she suddenly put her shoulder to the door and burst in - to find Donna Jackson, gagged and bound and _furious_.

Checking the room first for any other hidden surprises, the sheriff strode over to her, untying the kerchief across her mouth before loosening the rope that had bound her, leaving her free only to drum her heels on the floor to attract attention.

“There was a man here - tall, skinny death’s head of a feller - he’s got Morven!”

Serena had run up the stairs at the sound of Donna’s voice. “That’s Edward, all right,” she confirmed solemnly. “Tell us what happened Donna - are you hurt?”

Donna shook her head impatiently. I’m fine - just a bit of rope burn, nothing that a spot of arnica won’t cure - but he took Morven - said he couldn’t carry both of us so he’d take the littl’un. Said I was to give you a message, Miss McKinnie - said you’d understand.”

“What’s the message?” Bernie growled.

“He said if Miss McKinnie don’t keep her promise, we’ll never see Morven again.”


	13. Dead Women Tell No Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Campbell, the man who murdered Alexandra Dawson and Mariah Jenkins, and left Bernie for dead so many years ago, has taken Morven, and will kill her unless Serena keeps the promise her father made and marries him. 
> 
> Bernie rides out to track him down and bring Morven home, but first, she must take her leave of Serena.

Donna and Serena had been all for rounding up a posse to go and hunt Edward Campbell down and bring him in, but Bernie’s years of experience and a gut feeling she had learned to trust told her that she would do better to trail him alone. If they were to go in mob handed, she doubted that Morven would be brought home alive, and she had no intention of letting another young woman meet their end at the hands of Edward Campbell.

While Bernie returned to the gaol house briefly to check her weapons and saddled up a fresh horse, Donna bustled about the kitchen packing provisions for the trail, and Serena filled several canteens full of clean, fresh water from the well out front. She stood up straight as Bernie approached on a fine bay gelding. With the sun behind her, Bernie looked like an avenging angel, and Serena’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t identify what change had occurred to transform the always handsome woman into this magnificent vision of justice, but somehow Bernie seemed taller, more noble than ever before.

Her hair, tied back loosely, was a halo, and the flowing sleeves of her white shirt were backlit by the bright midday sun until they glowed like the wings of an archangel. Heavy ammunition belts were slung over one shoulder and around narrow hips, and they chinked lightly as Bernie swung a long leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. Serena told herself that the prickling of her eyes was the sun, the dust, but that didn’t account for the wavering in her voice.

“You be careful, now Bernie, won’t you? You’ll come back to me?”

Bernie nodded, smiling gravely, but Serena persisted.

“You come back to me, sweetheart, you hear me?” There was a quiet fierceness in her voice now, and she flung her arms around her, holding her tightly, and dropping a lingering kiss to her cheek, so near to her mouth that it left Bernie in no doubt as to her meaning, and she whispered a final time, her breath warm against Bernie’s ear, “Come back to me, Bernie Wolfe.”

She fussed over Bernie’s kerchief, straightened the gold star on her waistcoat and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, until Bernie took her hands gently and held her almost at arm’s length, not pushing her away, but calming her with her touch.

“Seems to me I got plenty to come back for, Serena. I won’t take a moment longer than I need to, but you promise me you’ll try not to worry - keep yourself busy rolling bandages or knitting socks or whatever it is you ladies do at times like this.” Her eyes were twinkling, but they shone too with unshed tears at the understanding that had passed between them at last.

“Miss Jackson here will look after you - though I guess it ought to be the other way round.” Donna had left them to have their moment, but she came out of the hotel now, Bernie’s saddle bag in her hand. Serena hid her face as she tucked the full canteens into the bag and hooked it onto the saddle, and when she turned round, there was a bright smile on her face.

“There you go, sheriff - all set. Go get your man and bring our girl back to us.”

Bernie nodded her thanks to Donna and mounted her horse again. Tipping her hat to the two women, she resolutely turned the horse towards the northern end of town, and with a click of her tongue, they set off at a steady trot along Main Street in the tracks of the cart that she had seen leaving town. It was time to get to work.

*** 

Serena’s girls were nothing if not resourceful, and Morven had evidently managed to snag a sack of flour as she was dragged through the kitchen, leaving a trail for Bernie to follow. It had been simple enough to follow the tracks of the cart a short way out of town, and although where the dusty road gave way to dirt and rocks the tracks were harder to find, the little drifts of flour gleamed like bleached cattle bones in the harsh sunlight. Morven had been smart enough to ration the flour to a handful here and there, and so Bernie was able to track them for a long way. By the time the flour ran out - oh, and clever girl, she had even discarded the sack so Bernie would know not to waste more time looking for the next mark - it was evident that Edward had been headed for the rocky outcrops of Mount Holby.

Bernie grinned to herself. She may not know every ridge and gully of this mountain, but she knew her way around this kind of terrain all right. She had spent several years in Montana, and had learned to love the harsh, unforgiving conditions she had encountered there. She had felt there was something particularly honest about the mountains - they promised little but danger, and they delivered, too. But for someone like her who respected the mountains and knew how to read their moods, there was a kind of homecoming to be enjoyed, and her spirits lifted as she skirted the foothills in search of a sign that would show that the fugitive and his hostage had passed this way.

She found it soon enough in the form of the discarded cart, the sacking thrown haphazardly in the back of the wagon. Using her coiled whip to move it aside in case any snakes had taken up residence, she saw fresh scratch marks in the rough boards, and made out the words _Wrymouth_ and _Morven_. Well, it was nothing she hadn’t known already, but she smiled again at the young woman’s presence of mind. There was something else, partly obscured by a scrap of white cotton - what did that say? She absently tucked the rag into a pocket and squinted a little, her head on one side. Why on earth had she taken the time and trouble to carve the name _Napoleon_ into the wood? Maybe the hot sun overhead had started to addle her usually sharp brain. Bernie shook her head, and set her face towards the mountain trail.

Edward Campbell was a hard man, but from everything Tristan Wood had said, he was tired and weak, his constitution broken by the life he had lived. Serena’s description of their encounter in the hotel confirmed that while he might just be capable of a taxing climb, he couldn’t hope to carry an unwilling captive, and she could see no sign that the horse had been let loose, and she surmised that he would keep Morven restrained and probably on horseback for as long as the beast could negotiate the narrow passes and steep paths up the mountain. She scoured the ground and found the telltale signs she was looking for, and hitching her own horse to a low branch, she set off on foot. She could travel more quickly and quietly on foot, and she was confident that as long as she could retain the element of surprise, he should prove little trouble to overpower.

The sun had begun its steady descent by the time the trail went cold. She had been following the clear tracks of the horse and a man on foot, but as she ascended the slopes and dirt gave way to solid rock, the tracks petered out. Had the enterprising Miss Shreve found another way to signpost her whereabouts? It was a shame she had dropped her handkerchief in the cart, for that might have provided another token. Nor did she wear ribbons in her hair - Miss McKinnie encouraged the girls to dress with professional modesty, with no frills or fripperies. Ordinarily, Bernie would approve wholeheartedly, but she wished Morven had some other means of marking the trail.

Well, there was nothing for it. If there were no tracks and no more signs, she would have to think her way into Edward Campbell’s mind. She grimaced at the thought of it, but it was a trick that had served her well in the past. Very well. If she were an ailing outlaw with a captive on horseback, what would she do - where would she lead them? She would want to keep Morven unharmed, or she would lose her value as a bargaining chip, and that meant keeping her restrained and immobilised on horseback for as long as she could - so the steeper trails were out of the question. Similarly, any very narrow paths would present problems, so she would keep to the broader tracks - but that would make her easy prey for anyone following. What were her alternatives? Looking around her she was spoiled for choice - there were so many possible paths to take if they were both on foot and the horse left to wander away. Morven was by no means timid or docile - but with a gun at her back, she would be pretty biddable. Bernie closed her eyes and sighed in frustration. What was her next move? But closing her eyes had the effect of focussing her other senses, and a sudden breeze brought a familiar sharp scent to her nostrils, and she set off towards the source of the smell, following her nose and treading softly and silently. Morven may not have left markers up here on the mountain, but the horse, bless the poor dumb beast, had - and it was pretty fresh, too. She moved a little upwind of the droppings and closed her eyes again. She tuned out the sound of the wind and the birds singing and let everything fade away.

There! Was that the soft nicker of a tired horse? She held her breath, waiting for another sound to break the stillness. But when it came, it wasn’t the gentle whinny of a horse, but a remembered sound that made her blood run cold. It was a melody that she hadn’t heard in many years, but within moments she had been transported back to the little cabin in the wilds of Virginia.

Someone nearby was whistling _Dixie_.

 

***

She followed the hateful sound, and as she approached, she slowed her step, sidled cautiously around a pillar of rock, and peered over a kind of embankment. There, in a kind of natural fortress created by a chasm in the rock formation, was a crude encampment - there was no sign of Morven, but there was the lean old mare, her head hanging wearily, and there was Edward Campbell - the man she had once known as Edward Dawson. He lay propped against a rock, his shirt drenched in sweat, and it was apparent that she had come upon him very soon after his arrival there. 

Bernie watched intently for a few minutes, but Campbell showed no sign of moving, just whistling sporadically as he rested. She walked a little further up the mountain, circling round and edging carefully across an overhang above his hiding place. Where on earth was Morven? She had to be nearby, but from her vantage point she could see no cover that could be concealing her, and she concluded that he must have hidden her away somewhere secure before retreating here to recover from the journey. She hoped that wherever it was provided some cover, for Morven’s sake.

Continuing her unsettling journey through the psyche of Edward Campbell, she considered how to persuade to him to release his hostage. She thought about the quasi-religious language that both he and Tristan Wood seemed to have adopted, but remembering Wood’s mild derision, she concluded that the biblical tone was either of Campbell’s choosing, or a manifestation of his tenuous grasp on reality. She was unsure whether he believed Wood’s John the Baptist act, but it was all she had to go on, and concealing herself as best she could up on the ridge, she called to him.

“Edward Campbell!” Her voices rang loud and clear in the mountain air, echoing from the rock face, amplified to a terrifying degree. With some difficulty, he got to his feet, squinting to see where the voice had come from, but she was between him and the sun and he could see nothing. “You who call yourselfthe Coming Storm, I am Vengeance Descending! Move one step from where you stand and I will smite you down!”

 

She remembered how every tale in the Bible of angels appearing to men began with a cautionary “Be not afraid,” so fearsome must men find them, and she understood a little of their terror as her voice was transformed by the acoustic basin of rock from a cry to sonorous bellow. This terrible voice trumpeting from the heavens was fearsome indeed, and he cringed and cowered, twisting around like a charmed snake to try and find the source. 

“You are Vengeance?” he cried out at last. “You’ve been a long time coming! I’ve been praying for vengeance these long years - now you’re finally here to help me take what’s mine!” 

Bernie rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath. Would anyone but a middle aged white man hear that Vengeance had come - and assume it was there to help him, not to judge him? 

Excited to an almost frenzied degree, he called out to her, speaking of what he was owed, what he was promised, and Bernie just couldn’t help herself as she heard the names of the two women she had loved. “You’re a fool, Campbell! Serena McKinnie sent you away: Alexandra Dawson ran from you. They were both within their rights, for no promise of a woman made by one man to another need be kept by _her_ , but we women, oh, we keep our own promises. I have promised to bring cruel men to justice, and God knows there is none more cruel than you.” 

She stepped out of the glare of sun and into the relative shade of the rocks above him, revealing her mere mortal presence, and as his eyes adjusted and he searched through his memory to place this apparition, he took a stuttering step back in shock. 

“You! I thought you were dead!”

***

She stood high above him, weapon in hand.

“I know you thought me dead - and you did your best to make it so, but it takes more than a flesh wound to kill a Wolfe. You’ll have to scrape off one of those notches on your pistol handle. You killed my friends, though, and even if it’s taken twenty years and more, justice has caught you up.” 

“Justice? There’s no justice for men like me when lying females break their word and steal what’s mine! First Serena McKinnie, then that Dawson chit you defiled - mine! _Mine!_ ”

She kept her pistol trained on him, her steady hand belying the tension in her body. He made a sudden dart towards his own weapon, and a shot rang out. He whirled round in confusion to see his hat on the ground several feet behind him, the hole still smoking where the bullet had passed through it. As she had promised other men before him, she offered to aim a little lower the next time, and he backed away from his saddle bags.

“The time for talking’s over. Where’s the girl, Campbell?”

“You’ll get the girl when I get Serena McKinnie and that preacher with the stump arm.”

“Not going to happen. Where’s the girl?” Bernie was implacable.

A look of cunning crossed his face, and he smiled a horrible knowing smile, showing blackened teeth. “Where you’ll never find her unless I show you. You harm a hair on my head and she’s a dead woman.”

“And you’re a dead man either way. Either I shoot you now - not to kill, just to incapacitate you - you see those vultures wheeling around overhead? - or I take you in and let Judge Hanssen decide the manner of your going. What’ll it be? Or - and this is up to you, mind - you can give me the girl and we can discuss… other options. I’m not an unreasonable woman, and I’m the law in these parts: I can choose to send you to Hanssen, or I can choose to send you back to the railroad - or I could choose to look the other way while you leave these parts quietly.”

He ruminated on this for a brief while, then stood tall in the manner of a general negotiating a surrender. 

“You got one chance, Sheriff. One chance - you blow it, she dies. I’m going to write down on a bit of paper where the girl is, and I’m going to tuck that bit of paper away next to my heart. If you can take it off me, the girl’s yours. If you can’t - she stays there and rots. One chance - that’s all you get. You agree to my terms?” 

Bernie looked him up and down. He was devious, and he was wicked - but he was weak, and old, and tired, and she knew that she could take him in a fair fight. “I agree!” She called. 

He smiled triumphantly. “Then these are my terms. Just you and me - nobody else comes near. Pistols. Main Street tomorrow -” he paused for effect.

“High Noon.”


	14. Gunfight At The Holby Corral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dawn: the morning of the showdown between Sheriff Wolfe and Edward Campbell. A lone figure wanders the cemetery, and another creeps into the kitchen at McKinnie's hotel.
> 
> The clock ticks on.
> 
> Sheriff Bernie Wolfe is ready to take on the man responsible for the disappearance of Morven Shreve: is he ready to hand her over?
> 
> And is either one of them ready to die?
> 
> The clock chimes noon.

It was nearly nightfall by the time Bernie rode back into Holby City. Serena had been trying to keep busy as Bernie had suggested - though she certainly hadn’t been knitting socks. The joke about rolling bandages had inspired her to overhaul her supply cabinets, however, and she and the girls had taken every box, bottle and bandage out, and scrubbed everything in the parlour to within an inch of its life before re-stocking the cabinets. They now had a thorough inventory of their supplies, and a clinic that was ready for whatever the day had left to throw at them.

Even this task couldn’t last forever, though, and by sundown, Serena was out on the front porch of the hotel, pacing nervously and awaiting Bernie’s return. Donna had pleaded with her, saying it was more than likely that it would be a day or two before the sheriff came back, but she would not be dissuaded. The rest of her little family were inside, either tending the bar or occupying themselves with some task or other, but Serena stood on the porch, for all the world like a sailor’s wife looking out to sea, knotting and unknotting her shawl with anxious fingers.

Her vigil was rewarded at last as Bernie rode into town, and she finally stilled in anticipation as the bay gelding trotted up to the hitching post and Bernie swung down from the saddle.

“Bernie - thank God - oh, thank God!”

And all at once, Serena was in her arms, breathing in the scent of dust and sweat and cool mountain air that clung to her, and Bernie’s shirt was wet with Serena’s tears.

“Serena,” she murmured. “Shh, Serena, it’s all right. I got you, darling.”

Serena clung tightly to her, a warmth suffusing her that had nothing to do with the evening sun, or the other woman’s arms around her. For all the affection Serena liberally bestowed on her, Bernie had never used such terms of endearment before, and the tentative step forward they had taken at Bernie’s departure for the mountain was confirmed.

Jasmine had heard the beat of hooves in the dust and had run out onto the porch, followed closely by Donna. The young woman was as glad as anyone to see the sheriff back safely, but her relief at Bernie’s return was tempered by her concern for her friend.

“Sheriff Wolfe - where is she? Where’s Morven?”

Serena stepped back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh god, I never even asked! What happened up there, honey - did you find them? Is she -” She couldn’t bring herself to say it, but Bernie was quick to allay their fears.

“I found ’em all right, and I believe Miss Shreve is as safe as she can be for now. He’s got her hidden away up there, but - I’m going to get her back, Serena. Come on, let’s get inside - I could do with putting my feet up for a spell.”

She took a few minutes to clean up a little and change her shirt, then Bernie came down to the kitchen where Serena and the girls had a hot meal waiting for her. The Reverend Digby had joined them earlier in the day - “I thought you ladies might appreciate a little moral and spiritual support” - and they listened eagerly as Bernie relayed the events of the day. She described the ride out to Mount Holby, the trail of flour ( _That’s my girl!_ Serena beamed), and finding the abandoned cart in the foothills.

“She’s a smart young lady, sure enough. If the trail of flour wasn’t enough, she’d managed to scratch out her name in the back of the cart so we’d know she’d been there - and his name, too, or the one he gave her, at least. Serena, I never asked you - does the name Wrymouth mean anything to you?”

Serena frowned for a moment, something tickling the edge of her memory, then unexpectedly she laughed aloud. “Lord, but he’s got delusions of grandeur. You know Campbell is a Scottish name, I guess? Well, the Campbell clan’s as old as anything - fought the English alongside old Robert the Bruce, back in the thirteen somethings - you ever hear of Bannockburn? Campbell just means something like crooked mouth, or wry mouth in the old tongue - I reckon one of them must have had a hare lip or something, and the name stuck. Him calling himself Wrymouth, he’s just trying to make out he’s of the old line. I’d bet you a silver dollar he ain’t though - the name’s as common as a anything.”

Bernie shook her head in amusement. It felt good to have a moment’s levity “Well, that explains that. Eddie Harelip.” She suddenly remembered the scrap of cotton she had found, and pulled it from her pocket. “Oh - and this was in the cart, too. Shame she didn’t take it to leave somewheres up on the mountain.” She dropped it on the kitchen table, and taking it up, the Reverend Digby made a little exclamation.

“That’s hers, all right - look, it’s got her initials embroidered on it. I gave it to her myself - she taught me to sew one handed when I lost my arm, and I stitched it for her as a little thank you,” he said shyly. “Us church mice, we can’t afford to send things to a seamstress, and I had to sew up a sleeve on every one of my shirts and coats. Pretty neat at it now, too,” he said, pride at his accomplishment tinged with his concern for Miss Shreve.

Bernie resumed her tale, telling briefly how she had tracked Campbell to his encampment, then, doodling and scrawling on an old envelope so as not to meet Serena’s eye, she explained the deal she had struck with him. Her heart wrenched as she heard the appalled gasp from the woman at her side, but there was no other way she could see to ensure Morven’s safety, and she would bring her home if it was the last thing she did. She could only hope that fate would not take her at her word.

“You sure you can take him down? He’ll fight dirty, you know. A man like that won’t worry about his reputation - he’ll fight to win, not to win honourably.”

“I know it - but there ain’t many tricks of that kind I ain’t seen before. I’ll be ready for him - and if there’s a quicker draw around than me, I ain’t met ’em yet, and there’s none more accurate.”

Donna and Jasmine looked at each other anxiously and the Reverend offered up a quick muttered prayer, but Serena’s attention was mercifully caught by a rap at the door from the bar, which stood ajar to allow a cool breeze to blow through the room. Glad of the distraction, Serena stepped quickly to the door, revealing the austere presence of Miss Naylor.

“Good evening, Miss McKinnie. I hoped you would be able to dispense a measure or two of Miss Zosia’s sedative: she is a little excitable of late. These eventful times are not good for her nerves.” 

As Serena retreated to the parlour to prepare the prescription, the Reverend Digby took his leave, and the girls saw him to the door. Left alone together, Bernie and Miss Naylor regarded one another warily. For once, it was Bernie who broke the silence first. 

“That’s a very distinctive scent you wear, Miss Naylor. I noticed it a few minutes ago. If you wanted to come in, you should have just made yourself at home - no need to wait outside while folks talk.”

Miss Naylor's spine stiffened, if such a thing were even possible for the uptight governess. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but did not break eye contact with Bernie. As she heard Serena call to her to collect the sedative, she paused a moment, then said in a low voice, “I wish you well in your endeavours, Sheriff. You will not be alone.”

Bernie looked at the door inpuzzlement as Miss Naylor swept through it. Perhaps she _had_ got religion after all?

***

Miss Naylor’s eyes narrowed in thought as she walked out into the evening sun, Miss Self’s prescription in her hand, and she turned back to look intently at an upstairs window. She nodded her head once, slowly and deliberately. She turned back to the road out of town and journeyed back to the Darwin house.

Upstairs in a locked room in McKinnie’s hotel, a curtain twitched.

***

The bar was getting busy now, and Donna and Jasmine went on through to help Mr Di Lucca serve the patrons. Serena and Bernie didn’t need to say a word to each other, and they simply walked upstairs together, hand in hand. They sat together now, not opposite one another in Serena’s parlour, but side by side on the settee, and Serena sank her head on to Bernie’s shoulder.

“I wish there was another way,” she said in a small voice.

“I know, darling,” Bernie murmured. “I know, but I’ve got to find her as soon as ever I can - the mountain’s not a forgiving place, and I daren’t risk searching and not finding her.”

“I feel like I only just found _you_ ,” Serena whispered, turning her face to Bernie’s neck.

Bernie leaned her head down, nuzzling her cheek against Serena’s hair. “Seems like it’s been a long time coming for both of us, ain’t it? But I ain’t going nowhere, Serena, not now.” She eased her arm out from between the two of them and put it around Serena’s shoulder, pulling her in tighter to her body. They sat there in the quiet of the evening, the birdsong from beyond the open window sweeter than they could ever recall hearing before, and when at last Bernie rose to say goodnight, Serena tugged at her hand.

“You don’t need to go upstairs tonight, Bernie. Stay with me.”

They stood so close together, a heartbeat, a breath away from making that last step, but Bernie leaned forward, touching her forehead to Serena's.

“You don’t know how much I want that, Serena - or how long I’ve wanted it. But if I come to you now, neither of us will get any sleep all night, I promise you that, and I got to be well rested if I’m going to take him down tomorrow. Soon, though Serena - soon.”

She drew back, then, unable to stop herself, she leaned in again to bring her lips gently to Serena’s, just once, and with a soft smile she closed the door behind her.

***

In the early hours of the morning, the mists still swirling around the tombs, a lone figure stumbled from stone to stone in the graveyard, chuntering to himself.

“Why’d she send me here, goddamn crazy bitch - _think on your sins and do what your conscience tells you_ \- what kind of fool does she take me for? You’d think I was the only man ever had a drink, or raised a fist…” He trailed off, raising a bottle to his lips and taking a long pull.

“All my life, these women. Why can’t they let me be? A crazy daughter, that harpy she keeps with her… the doctor - even the goddamn sheriff now… Why d’ye keep sending ’em to me, Mother?” He lurched to a halt before the largest, grandest tombstone in the graveyard, an ornate piece bedecked with angels, cherubim and all kinds of religious symbolism that he didn’t understand. Engraved on the central scroll of the carving was the legend, _Sacred to the Memory of Valerie Self, Beloved Mother_ , and the dates of her birth and death.

“Mother!” He sobbed, another mouthful of firewater trickling down his throat. “Why can’t you leave me in peace?”

“Because there _is_ no peace for the wicked,” came an eerie voice from the mist. From behind the tomb of Valerie Self stepped a pale figure dressed in a shroud, an arm raised to point at Guy.

“You!” Guy staggered back, stumbling over his own feet. “You’re dead!”

The ghostly figure of Dominic Copeland stepped slowly towards him, his arm still raised in admonition.

“At whose hand, Guy Self? And you ask for peace? Yet there is a way.”

Guy was on his knees now, clinging tightly to the bottle clenched in his fist as a drowning man clings to the rope thrown to save him.

“Tell me! Tell me, spirit - what must I do?”

Dominic lowered his arm slowly, pointing now to the whiskey bottle.

“Put away the bottle - for good. It has never been a friend to you.”

Guy looked at the bottle in his fist. “It’s been my _only_ friend these twenty years,” he pleaded.

Shaking his head, the figure spoke sadly. “It has been your greatest and only enemy. Put it away from you - there is no other way to peace for you - and even that may not be enough.”

“Please - please! There’s got to be _something_ I can do? I can’t stand it - I got to have peace or it’ll kill me - I’ll do anything!”

His head to one side as though watching the slow settling of the scales of justice, weighing Guy Self’s immortal soul against the balance of his misdeeds, Dominic Copeland, or his spirit, spoke once more.

“There may be a way…”

***

It was still early when the Reverend Digby returned to McKinnie’s hotel. In all the commotion of the previous evening, he had left his hat behind, and he felt improperly dressed without it. He was also hoping to see the sheriff before she girded her loins for the coming day’s fight - to try and talk her out of the duel, or failing that, to bless her weapons. Knowing that the the girls were often busy in the kitchen at this time of the morning, he knocked, but evidently the occupants were all either still abed or carrying out their chores upstairs, for no-one came to answer the door.

He looped the dog’s leash through the iron ring by the back door, tried the door handle and pushed - surely no-one would mind his retrieving his hat - and stepped into the quiet room. There was his hat where he had left it, hanging from a peg by the door - and there too was Miss Shreve’s handkerchief that he had so painstakingly embroidered for her, still on the kitchen table. He picked it up, fingering the fine cotton, bringing it up to his face for a sentimental, self-indulgent moment. He sighed. He was tempted to tuck it into his breast pocket, to keep it - and her - close to his heart, but he resisted, firm in his belief that she would come home to claim it for herself. As he placed it back on the table, he caught sight of the envelope Bernie had been doodling on the previous evening, and saw a familiar name.

 _Morven, Wrymouth, Napoleon; Morven, Wrymouth, Napoleon,_ it read, over and over again. Whoosh! It was as though a gas lamp had suddenly flamed into life above his head, illuminating what he must do, and he turned to the open door.

“Napoleon! Here boy!”

The dog whuffed and trotted up to the door, coming as close as his leash allowed. Revered Digby took up the handkerchief once more and offered it to the dog, who sniffed it, his tail wagging happily. He knew and loved this scent, and he knew and loved this game.

“Come on, Napoleon, we got a job to do - Miss Shreve needs our help. We’re going to play the best game of seek you ever had!”

***

The grandfather clock in the parlour seemed to have slowed almost to a stop. However frequently Serena looked at it, its hands barely seemed to move. It seemed to have been saying ten to the hour for ever, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted the minute hand to move quickly, or for it never to move again. Everything was perfectly still outside, for at Bernie’s order Mr Fletcher and Mr di Lucca had cleared the street - there would be no bystanders to be hurt by the confrontation. Bernie sat alone in the saloon, focussing on a breathing technique she had learned to keep her heartbeat slow and steady.

In the parlour, Donna and Jasmine were doing their best to comfort Serena, but oddly, it was the presence of Miss Naylor that she found most calming. Miss Naylor had brought Zosia in to see the doctor that morning, as she had been concerned about the girl’s nerves even after her medicated sleep, and now Mr Fletcher, carrying out Bernie’s orders to the letter, would not let them go out into the street. Serena had found nothing amiss with Zosia, and was at a loss to know what they were doing there today of all days, but she was glad of the utter indifference Miss Naylor displayed.

“Nothing in life is certain, and there is little point fretting over it,” she had said in that cool, bored voice of hers. “Either you or Mr Fletcher will have a customer today - perhaps both - so you would do well to stay calm and prepare for your task when it comes.” Serena had stared at her wide-eyed, but acknowledged that she was right, and she had done everything she could to ensure that the room was ready for her patient - whoever it might turn out to be.

At three minutes to twelve, the slow beat of hooves was heard out on Main Street, and Bernie stood as Serena came through to the bar. At the sight of her, Bernie smiled.

“You don’t need to say anything, Serena - I know. I know, darling.”

She held her closely for a long moment, then gently extricated herself.

“You stay in here, now, you hear me? You stay safe, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

But neither Serena nor any of the others gathered at the hotel had any intention of leaving Bernie out there on her own, and they stood close together on the porch, even Zosia and Miss Naylor standing in solidarity with the sheriff who had done so much for their little town.

Campbell had led his poor broken old nag to the water trough, and Bernie laughed without humour.

“You treat that horse better than you ever treated any woman,” she observed. “You want to save yourself a bullet and tell me where Miss Shreve is? Might save your life, too.” 

He sneered. “It’s your own life you ought to be worrying about - you’ve precious little of it left to you. No more talking. We had a deal - my Colt’ll do all the talking for me now. You say your prayers and take a cold drink,” he said, gesturing at the trough, “I heard it’s hotter’n Arizona where you’re going.”

Utterly unaffected by his bragging ways, Bernie set out the terms of engagement, nodding at the town clock above the door of the gaol.

“It's one minute to noon, Mr Campbell. I'm going to walk twenty paces North -” she nodded along Main Street - “and you’re going to walk twenty paces South. The we turn and face one another. We fire on the first chime of the clock, agreed?” 

“Agreed.”

“You got the map to where you got her?”

He patted his breast. “You doubting my word? Walk.”

They turned and walked, Mr Fletcher’s shotgun trained on Edward Campbell in case of any treachery. Campbell’s step was shaky and unsure, but Bernie strolled up Main Street as casually though she were going to pay a visit to a good friend. Forty paces apart, they turned to face each other, Campbell with his twitching fingers all but resting on the handle of his Colt: Bernie with her arms hanging by her sides as relaxed as she had ever looked.

The little crowd gathered on the porch of McKinnie’s eyed the hands of the clock as the seconds ticked away, and as the second hand approached the zenith, Serena turned her face away, unable to bear it. There was a pause, a stillness, and, as the hand ticked over, a chime.

High noon.

Edward Campbell’s arrogance was not matched by his reflexes. He fumbled for his weapon, but even as he was still raising his arm, Bernie fired a shot, and with a pinging sound as metal hit metal, his weapon fell from his hand and he grabbed his wrist, howling in pain. She was going to take no chances, though, and a second shot to his thigh saw him fall to the ground, groaning.

Watching him to make sure he was going to stay down, she walked steadily back to the hotel and reached out her hand to Serena, whose sharp gasp of relief had been followed by a sob.

“It’s all right, darling, it’s over now.”

But as she spoke, a man’s voice rang out in the still noonday air from somewhere further up the street.

“Look out, Sheriff!”

Bernie whirled round, to see Campbell leaning up on one arm, his other extended in a throwing motion, but his knife whirled harmlessly past her shoulder. A split second later, a shot rang out from somewhere and Edward slumped back to the dusty road, a red rose blossoming against his shirt.

From behind Mr Fletcher’s workshop appeared the unexpected figure of Guy Self, the gun dangling from his fingers still smoking. He staggered over to where Campbell lay, and raising his weapon again, aimed it straight between his eyes.

“No!” Bernie called in a voice that brooked no argument. “I want him alive!”

Guy stared at her in confusion, then shrugged, and standing over the fallen man, kept the gun trained on him, standing guard.

She strode the remaining distance, and crouching down, she roughly pulled Campbell’s jacket open, feeling in the pockets for the tell-tale crackle of paper. Increasingly frantic, she ripped his shirt open, but there was nothing. He had lied.

“Where’s the map, you lying son of a bitch?” She growled. “Where’s Miss Shreve?”

He laughed, a grim little chuckle that bloomed into the hysterical laugh of a madman.

“I’ll never tell. Stupid kid told me last night - there’s no money - Serena’s wasted it all on her make-believe hospital. There’s no money, nothing to bargain for, so why bother trading? She’s just another dead girl now - guess I can keep that notch in my pistol after all,” he said malevolently, turning spiteful eyes to Serena, who had come close to hear where Morven was.

In fury and frustration, Bernie raised a fist, but before she could strike, an anguished cry came from the hotel porch, where Zosia stood struggling to support the inert form of her companion.

“Miss McKinnie - come quick - it’s Miss Naylor - she’s been shot!”


	15. Hoe Down!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Serena races to save the life of Miss Naylor, Jasmine makes an astonishing discovery. Guy’s redemption is celebtarated, the Reverend Digby proves his worth - twice over, and there’s another, unexpected, celebration, too. 
> 
> The mystery of the Navy revolvers is solved at last, and as Judge Hanssen comes to take the miscreants to justice in Wyvern City, the course of Bernie’s future hangs in teh balance - for whoever heard of a woman acting as sheriff?

“Go!” said Bernie, and Serena ran back to the porch, barely sparing Campbell a glance. 

Mr di Lucca lifted Miss Naylor from Zosia’s arms, and carried her through to the parlour, laying her carefully on the butcher’s block that was used as an operating table. Mr Fletcher and Mr Self were not far behind, bearing Edward Campbell between them, and carrying him at Donna’s direction straight through to the kitchen. She flung a piece of sackcloth over the table before they put him down, saying “Folks got to eat off this table, I don’t want them poisoned.”

Back in the parlour, Serena sent Mr di Lucca out to tend to Campbell’s wounds. “I don’t trust myself not to ‘accidentally’ sever something important - you’d better patch him up as best you can while I see to Miss Naylor. I’ll call you if I need you. Donna will help you - Jasmine, I want you in here with me.” Miss Burrows nodded, and was already working to loosen the laces at the back of Miss Naylor’s dress. As the dark dress fell open at the back, they could see more clearly from the ivory-coloured corset she wore beneath it that a stray bullet - whether from Campbell’s gun or from Bernie’s - had hit her in the back, though thankfully missing her spine.

Jasmine carefully unlaced the corset and pulled it away from Miss Naylor’s body, and it became apparent immediately that the stiff whalebone stays had been acting as a sort of compress, for there was an alarming flow of blood as soon as it was removed, and Jasmine pressed a thick cotton dressing over the wound and applied pressure to stem the flow. Serena nodded approvingly as she lifted a sheet of gauze from the tray of instruments they had boiled that morning in preparation. She was relieved beyond measure not to be using them for Bernie’s benefit, but this… this looked bad, and she was horrified that someone else had been drawn into their drama.

Bernie had rounded up as many of the townsmen as were in calling distance to form a posse to go and search for Morven, and now she came into the little two-ward hospital to recruit Mr Fletcher; to ensure Campbell was sufficiently restrained, and then to join the search party herself. Mr di Lucca reassured her that Campbell was going nowhere: he and Donna had treated his gunshot wounds - Bernie’s bullet to the thigh, and another in his shoulder courtesy of Guy Self, and while they were nowhere near fatal, they had knocked all the fight out of him. She she gave him the keys to the gaol and the cells - he and Donna between them were more than a match for the exhausted, wounded man. But when she went through to the parlour to take her leave once more of Serena, she found a desperate scene awaiting her.

There was so much blood. It was doubtful whether the butcher’s block had ever seen so much of the stuff, even when it had served its original purpose. Serena had managed to remove the bullet - not Bernie’s, she was relieved to realise: Campbell’s weapon must have discharged as he dropped it - but she was struggling to close the wound, there was so much blood obscuring her field. Jasmine was trying valiantly to manage the blood flow, but it came quicker than she could deal with it, and it looked sure to be a losing battle. 

Bernie quickly and efficiently washed her hands in the basin of hot water on the dresser, then stepped in front of the younger woman, taking over from her.

“Here, let me try,” she said calmly, and rather than packing yet more cotton into the wound, she pulled the edge of the wound back a little to get a clear view, then ran her fingers along a little way to find the right spot, and pushed down hard, not directly on the wound, but higher up, putting pressure on the vessel that was supplying it. The bleeding did not stop entirely, but it slowed enough for Serena to see what was going on, and to attempt repair. But her hands were shaking now with the strain that her nerves had been under, and she swore.

“I can’t do it, Bernie - we’re losing her!”

“We’re not going to lose anyone today, Serena. Put your thumb where mine is and press down, hard as you can. That’s it. Now - give me the needle.”

To Jasmine’s astonishment, not only did Miss McKinnie hand over the needle without argument, but Sheriff Wolfe took it, and calmly and quickly stitched the ends of the severed vessel together as best she could, before stitching a layer of muscle over it.

“Miss Burrows,” she said, smiling at Jasmine, “I dare say your embroidery will be neater than mine - would you care to do the honours for Miss Naylor?” 

Jasmine glanced with worried disbelief at Miss McKinnie, who merely smiled gratefully and nodded, and she took the needle and proceeded to make a row of tiny, neat stitches pulling the edges of the wound together, all the while pretending as hard as she could that she was stitching nothing more challenging than the usual pig’s trotter. As she finished, she accidentally tugged aside the cloth that had been covering Miss Naylor’s upper body, and her eyes widened as she noticed a mark high on her shoulder.

“I declare I’m seeing things - would you look at that!” She brushed her fingers across the mark, reddish brown in hue, and the exact shape of a cactus.

“It’s a birthmark,” came a groggy, grumpy voice. “My mother had one just the same.” Miss Naylor opened one bleary eye and scowled up at Jasmine. “What about it?”

Jasmine looked from her face to the birthmark and back again. “My mother had one, too,” she said slowly, “and so have I.” She slipped the sleeve of her frock down over her shoulder, revealing a mark almost identical in colour and shape to Miss Naylor’s.

“So I’ve got a little sister, have I?” Her voice was a little less groggy, but no less grumpy. “Oh, goody.”

And with that, she retreated back into unconsciousness.

 

***

“You’re pretty handy with a needle, sheriff,” Serena said once they had moved Miss Naylor to the couch and made her as comfortable as she could be for now. 

“I told you I done a lot of fixing folk up during the war, and since - don't forget I was in the Ambulance Corps - or at least, Cameron Fitzgerald was. Clara Barton taught me a whole lot of medicine, and those army surgeons too - and I’ve had all too much opportunity to keep my hand in over the years.” 

Serena looked at her thoughtfully. “Reckon you’d make a mighty fine surgeon yourself…”

Laughing wearily, Bernie shook her head. “And who’s going to keep this town on the straight and narrow while I’m taking your work off you? Maybe once upon a time I might have gone to school to be a regular medical student, but I’m a bit long in the tooth now.”

“You look as fit as a fiddle to me,” Serena said slyly, a sideways glance making her meaning clear.

“Oh, you. There’s time for that later. You’d better let Miss Self know that her friend’s going to be all right - and I’d better talk to her father. Who’d have thought I’d owe my life to Guy Self? I have to thank him - if I can find him, that is.”

 

But as it happened, she did not have to look for him, for he was waiting for her on the porch, his hat in his hand, a finger worrying at the hole she had left in it during a previous conversation.

“I come to turn myself in, Sheriff Wolfe,” he said, before she even had time to greet him.

“Well, that’s very civil of you, Mr Self. For what, exactly? I’m not going to give you a night in the cells for firing at Mr Campbell - I’d just as soon give you a medal for that piece of sharpshooting. I ain’t complaining, now, but just out of curiosity, why _did_ you shoot him?”

He glanced around skittishly, plainly terrified of something. He nodded into the dark interior of the hotel, where he had seen the two casualties being carried earlier. “It was her - Miss Naylor - she said my conscience would speak to me, tell me the right thing to do, then that dead boy I killed came back and told me to look after you, Ma’am. I don’t want to go to hell, Sheriff! You tell the Reverend I done good today, ask him to say a prayer for me, will you?”

Bernie raised an eyebrow at this unlikely turn of events, but she had long had her suspicions, and all the pieces fell into place when a young man whom she recognised from his daguerreotype stepped out of the shadow of the bar, and spoke tentatively. 

“Yes - about that. Now don’t be mad at me, Mr Self, sir, but I reckon it’s past time I came clean, and Lord knows I can’t stand being cooped up in that room any more. Don’t be mad, sir - now you calm down - we’re all friends here now, ain’t we?”

Guy had sprung to his feet, and Dominic Copeland, his face washed clean of chalk dust and his nightgown replaced with his ordinary working clothes, backed away from him, his hands held out in supplication, but Guy was scared more than he was angry.

“You - you ain’t dead? You ain’t the voice of my conscience?” He was frowning, trying to make sense of this bewildering day.

“I ain’t dead sir, no sir, and I ain’t your conscience - but I reckon your conscience _did_ speak to you today after all, hey? You saved a life - you ever done that before? Feels pretty good, don’t it?”

Guy scratched the back of his neck, and he looked at Dominic, then at Bernie, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You know what, boy, it does feel good. Reckon it feels even better than takin-”

But Dominic was shaking his head, making a cut-throat gesture to stop him talking. “I wouldn’t say any more than that if I was you, Mr Self, not to the sheriff. I ain’t dead, Mr Campbell ain’t dead, and everything’s just fine, ain’t it?”

Bernie had been watching this exchange with some amusement, and interjected now. “I reckon I know the answer to this, Mr Copeland, but would you care to explain how it is you come to be here, and not down in the graveyard?”

He looked warily at Mr Self, who merely shrugged, and he turned to Bernie. “Well, maybe you heard Mr Self and I had something of a… disagreement? I didn’t do so well out of it, and Miss McKinnie said to me, Guy Self leaves you for dead, you _stay_ dead. Plan was, I was to stay out of sight until I was all healed up, then get out of town, start up someplace else - but I didn’t _want_ to leave Holby.” She smothered a smile at his petulant tone. “So I guess I was just biding my time, hoping things would calm down a little, and then Miss Zosia - well, she’s always been a good friend to me, you know - we pretty much grew up together - she started sending me little notes telling me how things was and how Mr Self - no disrespect, sir - wasn’t doing so well, and maybe I could help out with that, seeing as how he thought I was dead - she thought maybe I could shock him out of his unhealthy ways - and I reckon it worked, too, didn’t it?”

Guy had struggled to keep up, but he understood enough to know that Zosia and Dominic had tricked him into swearing off alcohol - and he understood enough to know that they had done him a favour.

“I guess it did. I’ve been taken for a fool - but then again, I been a fool for a long time. Where’s the Reverend Digby - tell him I want to sign the pledge,” he said stoutly.

***

The Reverend Digby, however, could not be found, and Bernie, having had the respite afforded by listening to the affecting reconciliation of Guy and Dominic, allowed it was time she went and joined the search party for Morven. She had barely made it to the end of Main Street when she heard singing and yelling and whooping, all getting closer all the time. 

She dragged a hand down her face - what else was this day going to throw at her? But as the noise grew nearer and nearer, and the townsfolk started coming out to see what the ruckus was, a broad smile broke across her face, and she turned back to the hotel at a run, shouting out as she went.

“Serena! Jasmine! Donna! Everyone - get yourselves out here - you got to see this!”

For round the corner and along Main Street came a procession of the posse that had gone to find Miss Shreve. Sitting on a fine black stallion was Morven herself, and alongside her, carried aloft on the shoulders of his flock, was the Reverend Arthur Digby, looking more like a jubilant schoolboy than the leader of a sober congregation, and they rode their respective steeds hand in hand, beaming from ear to ear.

“Sheriff!” Morven shrieked. “Sheriff Wolfe - Arthur came and rescued me - he understood my message! He brought Napoleon to come and find me, and he brought him straight to me! Isn’t he the cleverest dog?”

Trotting alongside the horse was perhaps the happiest looking dog Bernie had ever seen, a scruffy mongrel of a thing, all gangling limbs and long wiry hair, its tongue lolling out and its tail wagging like crazy. Napoleon was happy indeed: it had been the best game of seek ever. He couldn’t wait to go again.

The motley parade drew up at the hotel. Arthur clambered down, and Bernie smiled as he chivalrously offered his one good arm to Morven as she dismounted. Their hands were joined again the moment her feet touched the floor, and the whole boiling lot of them - Morven, Digby and the rescue party that hadn’t been needed after all - surged into the hotel to celebrate Morven’s rescue as well as Bernie’s survival.

Embracing her with all the relief of a mother whose lost child has been found, Serena ushered Morven through to the kitchen, Campbell having been moved to the gaol. She carefully applied a salve to Morven’s wrists and ankles which were sore from being bound, but beyond that, she was unharmed, and of such a cheerful disposition that she was relatively unscathed by her ordeal. As she said, gazing dreamily at Arthur, “Perfect love drives out fear, don’t it, Reverend?”

***

It had proved a day full of adventure and excitement, from Mr Copeland’s resurrection to Guy’s redemption; from Jasmine and Miss Naylor’s discovery to Morven’s rescue - not to mention the defeat and capture of the man who had blighted all their lives. But the day was not over yet, and it held more in store for the good people of Holby City.

In all the excitement, no-one had remembered that the Wyvern Stage was due in, and around four o’clock, the familiar rumble of wheels was heard, and few inside the hotel paid heed to it. Eric Griffin, however, was standing out on the porch, a fat cigar in hand, and it was his stentorian voice that alerted the revellers inside to the latest arrival - or rather, return, as his joyful bellow rose above the chatter and hum of the saloon bar within.

“Sacha Levy, you son of a gun! Why didn’t you write to say you were coming? And Miss Harrison, too - let me help you down from there.” 

As he did so, she smiled shyly at him, and said, “Thank you Mr Griffin - but it’s Mrs Levy now.” And Ric whooped for joy, picked her up and whirled her round before turning to his old friend Sacha and pumping his hand for several minutes.

Sacha’s friends poured out of the bar to welcome him home, and the new arrivals were practically dragged into the hotel as the partygoers within found even more to celebrate. A young man trailed in shyly behind them, and Sacha turned to him, introducing his nephew. 

“I heard things had changed out here - that the new sheriff finally got the place running like a civilised city, but I heard about what happened at Kellersville, too - figured you could use a few more bodies about the place. Ric, old pal, I ain’t here to take my old job back - I hope you’ll stick around?”

“At the rate this city’s growing, there’s more than enough work for two blacksmiths - I’d be glad of the help. And I know they’ll be glad of your nephew on the ranch so long as he can ride and shoot. Where’d he get to?”

But the young man had been monopolised by Mr Copeland, who knew a kindred spirit when he saw one.

“Well, how d’ye do, Curly Sue,” he said, a coy smile playing on his lips.

“Uh, howdy, sir - my name’s Benjamin, but most folks call me Lofty. I don’t know about Sue...”

Dominic laughed. “All right then, Lofty it is. My name’s Dominic Copeland, recently back from the dead, and I’ll be your tour guide today around Holby City - c’mon, let me show you around.”

Serena and Bernie had been watching these scenes of reunion and introduction with amusement and happiness form their vantage point by the bar, but now the Reverend Digby, who had been sitting with Miss Shreve in the kitchen, drew their attention. 

“Begging your pardon, ladies, but Mr Self’s here, says he’d like a word.”

“Oh Lord,” Serena rolled her eyes. “What now?” But they closed the door behind them and went on through to the kitchen. Guy Self was standing on the doorstep, hat held humbly in his hands, refusing to come in.

“I was telling the good Reverend, I want to sign the pledge, and I ain’t going to darken your door no more, Miss McKinnie. But I’d be mighty glad if you and the sheriff would do me the honour of being my witnesses.”

It was not what either of them had been expecting, and they exchanged dumbstruck glances. Bernie offered her arm to Serena, and off they went to the chapel, an unlikely church parade consisting of the preacher and his intended, the doctor, the sheriff and the man who until so recently had been the terror of the town.

The Reverend Digby was slightly at a loss, for there was no temperance society in Holby, and no-one had ever asked for such a thing before, but a good preacher could always extemporise.

“Mr Self, would you repeat after me: I, Guy Self, do solemnly swear and promise, as the Lord is my witness, to forego and forbear from imbibing all intoxicating liquors, from this day forward, so long as ye both shall live - uh, pardon me, I mean, so help me God. Amen.”

“Amen,” the small congregation echoed, and never was an Amen more heartfelt. If one day without liquor could turn Guy Self into a sharpshooting hero, what might he achieve through prolonged sobriety? Guy himself was beaming like a man reborn, and indeed, he felt he was. He shook Arthur’s hand until it was sore, and turning to Bernie, he made another pledge.

“If ever I can be of assistance to you again, ma’am, don’t you hesitate to call on me. I’m your humble servant, ma’am, your humble servant.”

The Reverend came to the rescue of a bemused Bernie, and asked Miss Shreve if she would be so kind as to escort Mr Self back back to the celebrations, as he wished to have a word with the ladies.

When the three of them were alone in the small chapel, Arthur cleared his throat, and spoke carefully.

“Miss McKinnie - Sheriff Wolfe - I hope I am not speaking out of turn, and I’m truly sorry if I am, but I wanted to say something to you both.”

Bernie’s heart dropped. She knew what was coming, and she prepared to defend her relationship with Serena as simply a close friendship, however bitterly the lie stuck in her throat. But she had underestimated the young clergyman.

“There are folks who will say that Essie Harrison should never have married Mr Levy on account of his religion, and there will be folks who will say that I should not marry Miss Shreve on account of the colour of her skin. But I say that love is love wherever you find it, and if the good Lord sends you someone to love and be loved by, it’s a sin to throw it back in His face.”

He took Serena’s hand and drew it across to Bernie’s, joining them together and holding them lightly in his own.

“I wish I could do more for you, but I can do this much.” And from memory, he quoted from the Book of Ruth. 

“Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.”

He smiled kindly at them as they stood, touched and humbled in the face of his understanding.

“And now, ladies, The Lord bless thee and keep thee: the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. Amen.”

And for the second time within the space of half an hour, they echoed his “Amen.”

He looked at them kindly, a smile on his pleasant face.

“You know, if I was you, Sheriff, and Miss McKinnie was Miss Shreve, I’d want to kiss her right about now.”

Casting him a look of gratitude, she turned to Serena, eyes shining.

“Serena?”

The early evening light was streaming through the chapel window, catching Bernie’s hair just as it had when Serena had seen her as the avenging angel riding out the day before, and the same light caught the golden flecks in Serena’s eyes, brimming with joyful tears. She nodded at Bernie.

“I do,” she whispered.

And there in the presence of Arthur’s God, if not their own, they kissed.

***

Back at the hotel, the party was at its height. Sacha had unloaded his belongings from the stage, including his fiddle, and now he stood atop the stagecoach, regaling the partygoers with tunes from his old country and songs from the new as they drank and danced, danced and drank.

“I don’t think they need us here,” Bernie smiled.

“They seem to be doing just fine without us,” agreed Serena, and just as they had done the night before, they walked upstairs together, hand in hand. Tonight, they closed the door behind them, and it did not open again until the morning, and for the first time, Bernie was still there when Serena awoke.

***

In the days that followed, the town settled back into something approaching normality, but there were many small changes to adjust to. Dominic oversaw the redistribution of gifts to those who had left them in his memory, but nobody seemed to mind too much about the deception, so glad were they to have him back behind the saloon bar and in the clinic. Guy Self had appointed himself his personal bodyguard, which was touching, though unnecessary given that the only threat he had ever faced was from Guy himself.

The mystery of the Colt Navy revolvers was solved at last as Bernie and Serena sat in what was now _their_ private parlour upstairs, joined by Miss Naylor, who was spending her convalescence as a guest at the hotel, and Miss Self, who had been her faithful nurse, and never left her side.

“You never did show me the box those shooters came in, Serena. Let’s have a look at it, see if we can’t work it out together. Hmm, it’s handsome piece of work, ain’t it? Almost as fine as the guns. And the letters on the lid, let’s see…. GNW, yes, I see it… Oh, but look, it ain’t G - N - W - the N is bigger than the W. I believe it’s G - W - N. That changes things, don’t it? Who have we got… Nicholson, Newton, Nelson…”

“Nash, Norman, Neville…” Serena supplied.

“Oh, for goodness sake, would somebody put me out of my misery? It’s Naylor - obviously.” The scornful look on Miss Naylor’s face was one they were all familiar with by now.

“ _You_ left these here? And Dominic - you mean to say you picked him up and brought him to us - _you're_ the Kellersville Vigilante?”

“We both are,” Zosia chipped in. “When we saw what my father had done to Dominic, we brought him to you, but I was too scared at first to go against him, so we left him outside early that morning, knowing you’d find him. But then I realised that I had some power over him - my father - and I told him that if he didn’t mend his ways, I would leave and never see him again. We sent you Jac’s guns - well, her father’s - so you could defend yourself if he _did_ get out of hand again, but then you came along, Sheriff Wolfe, and you know he can’t cope with a confident woman.”

Miss Naylor took up the thread. “After a while it occurred to us to make use of his troublemaking in a more constructive way, and if he was spoiling for a fight, we made sure it would be with someone who deserved it - Siegfried Forrest, or Wood, whatever his name is. Then Zosia and I brought him in to the gaol. He wasn’t as badly injured as Mr Copeland had been, and frankly, we didn’t much care about his wellbeing anyway. We made sure he knew it was a couple of women who had brought him in - Mr Self isn’t the only man who doesn’t like to be bested by a couple of women, and that foolish male pride guaranteed our anonymity.”

Bernie was impressed. “Foolish male pride - well, goodness knows there’s been enough of that around here lately. But I got to say, humility suits your father, Miss Self - he’s like a new man. We’d better find some useful occupation for him before he drives poor Mr Copeland mad, though.”

***

Edward Campbell and Tristan Wood had both recovered sufficiently from their injuries to be transported to Wyvern City for their respective trials, and Judge Hanssen himself came to escort them to the county gaol. The town was glad to be rid of them, and Bernie was satisfied that they would receive a fair trial for their crimes. She knew that it was almost inevitable that both would be found guilty, but her only concern now was that justice be served, for she had left all notions of revenge behind her a long time ago.

Judge Hanssen came to visit the Sheriff on his arrival in Holby City, and expressed polite astonishment at finding a woman in charge at the gaol house. So curious were Bernie’s friends about how he would respond to her tenancy that they all tried to pile into her office, and in the end they relocated to the parlour at McKinnie’s. On hearing the testimony of these pillars of Holby’s community, the judge had no complaint of Bernie’s service, nor did he display any censure against Mr Levy for quitting the post to keep Miss Harrison safe.

“I confess I am curious, though,” he said. “I sent a Mr Robert Medcalf to act as sheriff in Mr Levy’s stead - what became of him?”

Those present in the parlour barely suppressed their sniggers and snorts of laughter as they recalled the sight of the over-confident lawman running out of town, and Serena’s cough barely disguised the words “pant-wetting man-baby,” which sent Bernie off into a paroxysm of coughing as well.

It was Mr Fletcher who helpfully supplied, “The climate in Holby didn’t agree with his constitution, Mr Hanssen, but fortunately, Sheriff Wolfe met him on his way out of town and volunteered to step in.”

“I see.” Judge Hanssen nodded gravely but courteously at Bernie. “It seems we are indebted to you, Miss Wolfe. However, I must say that is most irregular to find a lady acting in the capacity of sheriff, and I am not at all sure that I can allow you to continue.”

Serena was up in arms at once, practically spitting fire in her defence, but Bernie put a calming hand on her arm and pulled her back down to her seat.

“It’s all right, Serena - reckon I’m about ready to hand over the badge now anyhow - I done what I came here to do. I cleaned up the town and seen those two behind bars, now I’m ready to pass it all on to someone else. And maybe there’s more profitable ways for me to spend my time - after all, it’s going to take me a whole lot of book-learning if I’m going to be a surgeon, ain’t it?”

“You mean it? You're really going to study to be a doctor? Oh, Bernie, that’s wonderful!”

“Well,” Bernie said, “I ain’t submitted my application yet, but I’m hoping for a place at the McKinnie School of Medicine…”

Judge Hanssen, feeling that things were getting away from him a little, interrupted them to return to the business of the day.

“Very well - Wyvern County is most grateful for your service, Miss Wolfe, and accepts your resignation with immediate effect. Which leaves Holby City without a sheriff - again. I must say, you do seem to get through them with alarming regularity. Can anyone explain this phenomenon?”

Dominic trod heavily on Guy Self’s foot as he rose to confess his misdeeds, which had become a compulsion of late, and Sacha explained that he had left temporarily for the sake of Miss Harrsion’s - “I mean, Mrs Levy’s health,” he blushed, still not used to being a married man.

“I see - and is Mrs Levy quite recovered now? I am pleased to hear it. There remains, however, the rather more serious matter of Mr Mayfield. I understand his killer was never identified?”

The awkward silence was broken only by a subdued yelp from Mr Self as Dominic actually kicked him, and said, “It’s a fact of life, Judge, that from time to time, the rats get in the grain store, and they need disposing of before they do any more damage. It’s our belief that justice has been served here, and I don’t believe you’ll hear anyone in this town tell you any different.”

Henrik Hanssen was an honest, upright, law abiding man, but he was also a man of discretion, and there the matter ended.

“Well, I believe there is only one matter to clear up before I relieve you of your unwelcome guests. Mr Levy, if you are certain that the threat to your wife’s health will not take you away from town again, would you be willing to resume your former duties?”

“If Mr Griffin would agree to stay in Holby - we need a blacksmith as much as we need a sheriff. Ric? How about it - will you stay?”

“Gladly, old friend - very gladly indeed.”

Judge Hanssen straightened the papers on the table in front of him and steepled his fingers primly. “Excellent! Miss Wolfe, would you mind…”

And Bernie unpinned the gold star one last time from her waistcoat, and stood to pin it to Sacha’s breast. In an impulsive moment, she reached up and kissed his check, to his bashful pleasure.

“Indeed, indeed. Mr Levy, do you have anyone in mind for the post of Deputy, while I have the paperwork to hand?”

With a flash of inspiration, Sacha looked across the table and said, “I can think of no finer man for the post than Guy Self, sir. He’s known as a firm disciplinarian in these parts, and doesn’t touch a drop of liquor - in fact, he was the first man to sign the pledge in the whole of Holby City.”

Guy’s jaw hung open, and he stammered his thanks. “I - I won’t let you down, Sheriff Levy - I’ll be your right hand man!”

Bernie smirked at Sacha’s stroke of genius. What better way to ensure Guy’s continued good behaviour than to keep him close at hand and rewarded for it? And it was no bad thing for a lawman to have a reputation as a hard man - which Sacha was certainly not. Well, she would wait and see - but she suspected they would make a great team.

***

Sheriff Levy stood on the porch of the gaol house, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, surveying his peaceful town proudly. The quiet of the morning was broken only the industrious sounds of sawing from Mr Fletcher’s workshop and the ringing of hammer on anvil from the forge. Behind him, inside the gaol, Deputy Self was scrubbing out the cells that he himself had inhabited on so many previous occasions. Further along Main Street, Mrs Digby was sweeping dust from the front step of the chapel, where no doubt her husband was composing his sermon for the week. The sheriff’s own wife, Essie, was hard at work in the new saloon bar that Mr Fletcher had built for her with the assistance of their many friends: it would open tonight for the first time. 

And across the street, a new brass plaque, beautifully engraved by Mr Griffin, gleamed in the sun.

_Holby City Hospital_  
Incorporating  
The McKinnie School of Medicine  
Surgeon General and Dean: Professor S. McKinnie  
Asst: Dr D. Copeland, Dr R. di Lucca  
Head of Nursing: Miss D. Jackson 

Inside the newly chartered medical school, Professor McKinnie entered the lecture theatre that had once been the bar of McKinnie’s Hotel, to find her class waiting for her in readiness. It was a class of one, but there was already a waiting list for the next semester. As she stepped through the door, her eye was caught by something bright and colourful on her desk.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asked, the twinkle in her eye belying her stern tone.

“Apple for the teacher, if you please, ma’am,” came the prim reply.

Serena picked it up and tossed it a couple of times before setting it back down and strolling to Bernie’s desk.

“Well, you know what they say - an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Is that what you want?”

“Oh, _no_ ma’am!” Bernie’s response was emphatic, her golden curls shaking.

“Then perhaps you can find another way to show your appreciation, hmm? Now - our first class today is Anatomy. Are you ready to study the female form, Miss Wolfe?”

“Oh, yes _ma’am!_ ”


	16. Historical Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small frontier town of Holby City has become a subject of some interest to historians in recent years. Here for your consideration is the abstract of the exciting new volume from Gold Star Press by the respected Wild West historian Professor FlimFlam: the much anticipated “Gayest Town In The West.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to get your hopes up, folks! ;-)
> 
> Just a little something to thank you for following this utter folly. 
> 
> Yeehaw!

FlimFlam, P. (2018) _The Gayest Town In The West: A Brief History of Holby City_. Wyvern City: Gold Star Press

**Abstract**

Holby City flourished and thrived for a generation under the watchful care of Sheriffs Wolfe, Levy, Wolfe (again) and Copeland. The McKinnie School of Medicine proved a great draw to the town, and prospective students flocked to Holby over the years following its establishment. Furthermore, at least half of the students were drawn from the population of the town itself, and by the end of the century, there were more doctors in Holby than in any other part of the West - to the detriment of the other professions. By 1923, there were no butchers, bakers or grocers whatsoever left in Holby, though there were over seven hundred trauma surgeons alone.

A second factor in the town’s demise was the unprecedentedly low birth rate, caused in part by an explosion in what would later come to be known as the LGBT community, but in those days was coyly referred to simply as “friends of the Sheriff.” The irony of the disparity between the number of obstetricians resident and the number of women likely to actually fall pregnant will not be lost on the reader.

By 1954, Holby City was all but a ghost town. It enjoyed a brief revival during Hollywood’s fascination with the West, and provided the backdrop for such memorable B movies as _The Cowgirl Who Loved Me_ , _Sheona the Showgirl_ and _Red Stockings At Night, Sheriff’s Delight_. But as Westerns fell out of favour with cinema-goers, the town fell into ruin once more.

In recent years its fortunes have reversed once more, as it has become a tourist destination for gay medics from across the globe. McKinnie’s is a hotel once more, and the little chapel is the wedding venue of choice for anyone wishing to make their vows on the site of what is now widely regarded as one of America’s first same-sex weddings, the legacy of the love between Serena McKinnie and Bernie Wolfe. Thus Holby City has been saved once more by the woman who first saved it in 1883, the woman they called:

_Wild West Wolfe._


End file.
